STUDIES   IN  WIVES 


BY  MRS.  BELLOC  LOWNDES 

THE  UTTERMOST  FARTHING 
THE  PULSE  OF  LIFE 
BARBARA  REBELL 
THE  HEART  OF  PENELOPE 
STUDIES  IN   WIVES 


Studies  in  Wives 


By 

MRS.  BELLOC  LOWNDES 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
8  East  89th  Street 


Copyright,   1910,   by  Mitchell   Kennedy 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      ..    ...    w  .  .  .  .       1 

II.  MR.  JARVICK'S  WIFE      .      .     ...     •..-.  k.,  .  t.,  .     47 

III.  A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE      .      .  .  .  .  .     93 

IV.  ACCORDING  TO  MEREDITH  .      .      ..  ,.  .  .151 
V.  SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      .      .      .,  i.:  :.,  .  .   205 

IV.  THE  DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE     .  •..  •,.,  ...  .  277 


2131007 


I 

ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY 

"  His  confidence  shall  be  rooted  out  of  his  tabernacle, 
and  it  shall  bring  him  to  the  king  of  terrors." — JOB 
xviii.  14. 

THERE  came  the  sound  of  a  discreet,  embar- 
rassed cough,  and  Althea  Scrope  turned 
quickly  round  from  the  window  by  which  she 
had  been  standing  still  dressed  in  her  outdoor 
things. 

She  had  heard  the  door  open,  the  unfolding 
of  the  tea-table,  the  setting  down  of  the  tea- 
tray,  but  her  thoughts  had  been  far  away  from 
the  old  house  in  Westminster  which  was  now 
her  home ;  her  thoughts  had  been  in  Newcastle, 
dwelling  for  a  moment  among  the  friends  of 
her  girlhood,  for  whom  she  had  been  buying 
Christmas  gifts  that  afternoon. 

The  footman's  cough  recalled  her  to  herself, 
and  to  the  present. 

"  Am  I  to  say  that  you  are  at  home  this 
afternoon,  ma'am?" 

Althea's  thoughtful,  clear  eyes  rested  full 
on  the  youth's  anxious  face.  He  had  not  been 
long  in  the  Scropes'  service,  and  this  was  the 


4  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

first  time  he  had  been  left  in  such  a  position  of 
responsibility,  but  Dockett,  the  butler,  was 
out,  a  rare  event,  for  Dockett  liked  to  be  mas- 
ter in  his  master's  house.  Before  the  mar- 
riage of  Perceval  Scrope,  Dockett  had  been 
Scrope's  valet,  and,  as  Althea  was  well  aware, 
the  man  still  regarded  her  as  an  interloper. 
Althea  did  not  like  Dockett,  but  Perceval  was 
very  fond  of  him,  and  generally  spoke  of  him 
to  his  friends  as  "  Trip."  Althea  had  never 
been  able  to  discover  the  reason  of  the  nick- 
name, and  she  had  not  liked  to  ask;  her  hus- 
band often  spoke  a  language  strange  to  her. 

"  I  will  see  Mr.  Bustard  if  he  comes,"  she 
said  gently. 

Dockett  would  not  have  disturbed  her  by 
askinglhe  question,  for  Dockett  always  knew, 
by  a  sort  of  instinct,  whom  his  master  and  mis- 
tress wished  to  see  or  to  avoid  seeing. 

Again  she  turned  and  stared  out  of  the  high, 
narrow,  curtainless  windows.  Perceval  Scrope 
did  not  like  curtains,  and  so  of  course  there 
were  no  curtains  in  his  wife's  drawing-room. 

Snow  powdered  the  ground.  It  blew  in 
light  eddies  about  the  bare  branches  of  the 
trees  marking  the  carriage  road  through  St. 
James's  Park,  and  was  caught  in  whirling 
drifts  on  the  frozen  sheet  of  water  which  re- 


ALTHEA'S   OPPORTUNITY       5 

fleeted  the  lights  on  the  bridge  spanning  the 
little  lake.  Even  at  this  dreary  time  of  the 
year  it  was  a  charming  outlook,  and  one  which 
most  of  Althea's  many  acquaintances  envied 
her. 

And  yet  the  quietude  of  the  scene  at  which 
she  was  gazing  so  intently  oppressed  her,  and, 
suddenly,  from  having  felt  warm  after  her 
walk  across  the  park,  Althea  Scrope  felt  cold. 

She  moved  towards  the  fireplace,  and  the 
flames  threw  a  red  glow  on  her  tall,  rounded 
figure,  creeping  up  from  the  strong  serviceable 
boots  to  the  short  brown  skirt,  and  so  to  the 
sable  cape  which  had  been  one  of  her  husband's 
wedding  gifts,  but  which  now  looked  a  little 
antiquated  in  cut  and  style. 

It  is  a  bad  thing — a  sign  that  all  is  not  right 
with  her — when  a  beautiful  young  woman  be- 
comes indifferent  to  how  she  looks.  This  was 
the  case  with  Althea,  and  yet  she  was  only 
twenty- two,  and  looked  even  younger;  no  one 
meeting  her  by  chance  would  have  taken  her  to 
be  a  married  woman,  still  less  the  wife  of  a 
noted  politician. 

She  took  off  her  fur  cape  and  put  it  on  a 
chair.  She  might  have  sent  for  her  maid,  but 
before  her  marriage  she  had  always  waited  on 
herself,  and  she  was  not  very  tidy — one  of  her 


6  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

few  points  of  resemblance  with  her  husband, 
and  not  one  which  made  for  harmony.  But 
Mrs.  Scrope,  if  untidy,  was  also  conscientious, 
and  as  she  looked  at  the  damp  fur  cloak  her 
conscience  began  to  trouble  her. 

She  rang  the  bell.  "  Take  my  cloak  and 
hang  it  up  carefully  in  the  hall,"  she  said  to  the 
footman.  And  now  the  room  was  once  more 
neat  and  tidy  as  she  knew  her  friend,  Mr.  Bus- 
tard, would  like  to  see  it. 

It  was  a  curious  and  delightful  room,  but  it 
resembled  and  reflected  the  woman  who  had  to 
spend  so  much  of  her  life  there  as  little  as  did 
her  quaint  and  fanciful  name  of  Althea.  Her 
husband,  in  a  fit  of  petulance  at  some  excep- 
tional density  of  vision,  had  once  told  her  that 
her  name  should  have  been  Jane — Jane, 
Maud,  Amy,  any  of  those  old-fashioned,  early 
Victorian  names  would  have  suited  Althea, 
and  Althea's  outlook  on  life  when  she  had 
married  Perceval  Scrope. 

Althea's  drawing-room  attained  beauty,  not 
only  because  of  its  proportions,  and  its  delight- 
ful outlook  on  St.  James's  Park,  but  also  be- 
cause quite  a  number  of  highly  intelligent  peo- 
ple had  seen  to  it  that  it  should  be  beautiful. 

Although  Scrope,  who  thought  he  knew  his 
young  wife  so  well,  would  have  been  surprised 


ALTHEA'S   OPPORTUNITY       7 

and  perhaps  a  little  piqued  if  he  had  been  told 
it,  Althea  preferred  the  house  as  it  had  been 
before  her  marriage,  in  the  days  when  it  was 
scarcely  furnished,  when  this  room,  for  in- 
stance, had  been  the  library-smoking-room  of 
its  owner,  an  owner  too  poor  to  offer  himself 
any  of  the  luxurious  fitments  which  had  been 
added  to  make  it  suitable  for  his  rich  bride. 

As  soon  as  Scrope's  engagement  to  the  pro- 
vincial heiress  Althea  then  was  had  been  an- 
nounced, his  friends — and  he  was  a  man  of 
many  friends — had  delighted  to  render  him  the 
service  of  making  the  pleasant  old  house  in 
Delahay  Street  look  as  it  perchance  had  looked 
eighty  or  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  illusion 
was  almost  perfect,  so  cleverly  had  the  flotsam 
of  Perceval  Scrope's  ancestral  possessions 
been  wedded  to  the  jetsam  gathered  in  curios- 
ity shops  and  at  country  auctions — for  the  de- 
votion of  Scrope's  friends  had  gone  even  to 
that  length. 

This  being  so,  it  really  seemed  a  pity  that 
these  same  kind  folk  had  not  been  able  to — oh! 
no,  not  buy,  that  is  an  ugly  word,  and  besides 
it  had  been  Perceval  who  had  been  bought,  not 
Althea — to  acquire  for  Scrope  a  wife  who 
would  have  suited  the  house  as  well  as  the 
house  suited  Scrope. 


8  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

But  that  had  not  been  possible. 

Even  as  it  was,  the  matter  of  marrying  their 
friend  had  not  been  easy.  Scrope  was  so  wil- 
ful— that  was  why  they  loved  him!  He  had 
barred — absolutely  barred — Americans,  and 
that  although  everybody  knows  how  useful  an 
American  heiress  can  be,  not  only  with  her 
money,  but  with  her  brightness  and  her  wits, 
to  an  English  politician.  He  had  also  stipu- 
lated for  a  country  girl,  and  he  would  have 
preferred  one  straight  out  of  the  school-room. 

Almost  all  his  conditions  had  been  fulfilled. 
Althea  was  nineteen  at  the  time  of  her  mar- 
riage, and,  if  not  exactly  country-bred — she 
was  the  only  child  of  a  Newcastle  magnate — 
she  had  seen  nothing  of  the  world  to  which 
Scrope  and  Scrope's  Egeria,  the  woman  who 
had  actually  picked  out  Althea  to  be  Scrope's 
wife,  had  introduced  her. 

Scrope's  Egeria?  At  the  time  my  little 
story  opens,  Althea  had  long  given  up  being 
jealous — jealous,  that  is,  in  the  intolerant, 
passionate  sense  of  the  word;  in  fact,  she  was 
ashamed  that  she  had  ever  been  so,  for  she  now 
felt  sure  that  Perceval  would  not  have  liked 
her,  Althea,  any  better,  even  if  there  had  not 
been  another  woman  to  whom  he  turned  for 
flattery  and  sympathy. 


ALTHEA'S   OPPORTUNITY        9 

The  old  ambiguous  term  was,  in  this  case, 
no  pseudonym  for  another  and  more  natural, 
if  uglier,  relationship  on  the  part  of  a  married 
man,  and  of  a  man  whom  the  careless  public 
believed  to  be  on  exceptionally  good  terms 
with  his  young  wife. 

Scrope's  Egeria  was  twenty-four  years 
older  than  Althea,  and  nine  years  older  than 
Scrope  himself.  Unfortunately  she  had  a 
husband  who,  unlike  Althea,  had  the  bad  taste, 
the  foolishness,  to  be  jealous  of  her  close 
friendship  with  Perceval  Scrope.  And  yet, 
while  admitting  to  herself  the  man's  folly,  Al- 
thea had  a  curious  liking  for  Egeria's  husband. 
There  was,  in  fact,  more  between  them  than 
their  common  interest  in  the  other  couple;  for 
he,  like  Aithea,  provided  what  old-fashioned 
people  used  to  call  the  wherewithal;  he,  like 
Althea,  had  been  married  because  of  the  gifts 
he  had  brought  in  his  hands,  the  gifts  not  only 
of  that  material  comfort  which  counts  for  so 
much  nowadays,  but  those  which,  to  Scrope's 
Egeria,  counted  far  more  than  luxury,  that  is, 
beauty  of  surroundings  and  refinement  of  liv- 
ing. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Panfillen — to  give  Egeria  and 
her  husband  their  proper  names — lived  quite 
close  to  Althea  and  Perceval  Scrope,  for  they 


10  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

dwelt  in  Old  Queen  Street,  within  little  more 
than  a  stone's  throw  of  Delahay  Street. 

Joan  Panfillen,  unlike  Althea  Scrope,  was 
exquisitely  suited  to  her  curious,  old-world 
dwelling.  She  had  about  her  small,  graceful 
person,  her  picturesque  and  dateless  dress, 
even  in  her  low  melodious  voice,  that  harmony 
which  is,  to  the  man  capable  of  appreciating  it, 
the  most  desirable  and  perhaps  the  rarest  of 
feminine  attributes. 

There  was  one  thing  which  Althea  greatly 
envied  Mrs.  Panfillen,  and  that  was  nothing 
personal  to  herself ;  it  was  simply  the  tiny  for- 
mal garden  which  divided  the  house  in  Old 
Queen  Street  from  Birdcage  Walk.  This 
garden  looked  fresher  and  greener  than  its  fel- 
lows because,  by  Mrs.  Panfillen's  care,  the  min- 
iature parterres  were  constantly  tended  and 
watered,  while  the  shrubs  both  summer  and 
winter  were  washed  and  cleansed  as  carefully 
as  was  everything  else  likely  to  be  brought  in 
contact  with  their  owner's  wife. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  they  lived  so  very 
near  to  one  another,  the  two  women  were  not 
much  together,  and  as  a  rule  they  only  met,  but 
that  was,  of  course,  very  often,  when  out  in  the 
political  and  social  worlds  to  which  they  both 
belonged. 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      11 

Althea  had  a  curious  shrinking  from  the 
Panfillens'  charming  house.  It  was  there, 
within  a  very  few  weeks  of  her  father's  death, 
that  she  had  first  met  Perceval  Scrope — and 
there  that  he  had  conducted  his  careless  woo- 
ing. It  was  in  Mrs.  Panfillen's  boudoir,  an 
octagon-shaped  room  on  the  park  side  of  the 
house,  that  he  had  actually  made  his  proposal, 
and  that  Althea,  believing  herself  to  be  "  in 
love,"  and  uplifted  by  the  solemn  and  yet  joy- 
ful thought  of  how  happy  such  a  marriage — 
her  marriage  to  a  member  of  the  first  Fair 
Food  Cabinet — would  have  made  her  father, 
had  accepted  him. 

From  Old  Queen  Street  also  had  taken 
place  her  wedding,  which,  if  nominally  quiet, 
because  the  bride  still  chose  to  consider  herself 
in  deep  mourning,  had  filled  St.  Margaret's 
with  one  of  those  gatherings  only  brought  to- 
gether on  such  an  occasion — a  gathering  in 
which  the  foemen  of  yesterday,  and  the  ene- 
mies of  to-morrow,  unite  with  the  friends  of 
to-day  in  order  to  do  honour  to  a  fellow-poli- 
tician. 

Althea  had  darker  memories  connected  with 
Mrs.  Panfillen's  house.  She  had  spent  there, 
immediately  after  her  honeymoon,  an  unhappy 
fortnight,  waiting  for  the  workpeople  to  leave 


12  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

her  future  home  in  Delahay  Street.  It  was 
during  that  fortnight  that  for  the  first  time  her 
girlish  complacency  had  forsaken  her,  and  she 
had  been  made  to  understand  how  inadequate 
her  husband  found  her  to  the  position  she  was 
now  called  upon  to  fill.  It  was  then  that  there 
had  first  come  to  her  the  humiliating  suspicion 
that  her  bridegroom  could  not  forgive  her  his 
own  sale  of  himself.  Scrope  and  Joan  Panfil- 
len  were  subtle  people,  living  in  a  world  of  sub- 
tleties, yet  in  this  subtle,  unspoken  matter  of 
Scrope's  self -contempt  concerning  his  mar- 
riage, the  simple  Althea's  knowledge  far  pre- 
ceded theirs. 

In  those  days  Joan  Panfillen,  kindest,  most 
loyal  of  hostesses,  had  always  been  taking  the 
bride's  part,  but  how  unkind — yes,  unkind  was 
the  word — Perceval  was,  even  then! 

Althea  had  never  forgotten  one  little  inci- 
dent connected  with  that  time,  and  this  after- 
noon she  suddenly  remembered  it  with  sin- 
gular vividness.  Scrope  had  been  caricatured 
in  Punch  as  Scrooge;  and — well — Althea  had 
not  quite  understood. 

"Good  Lord!"  he  had  exclaimed,  turning 
to  the  older  woman,  "  Althea  doesn't  know 
who  Scrooge  was ! "  and  quickly  he  had  pro- 
ceeded to  put  his  young  wife  through  a  sharp, 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      13 

and  to  her  a  very  bewildering  examination, 
concerning  people  and  places  some  of  whom 
she  had  never  heard  of,  while  others  seemed 
vaguely,  worryingly  familiar.  He  had  ended 
up  with  the  words,  "  And  I  suppose  you  con- 
sider yourself  educated!"  A  chance  mut- 
tered word  had  then  told  her  that  none  of  these 
places  were  real — that  none  of  these  people 
Perceval  had  spoken  of  with  such  intimate 
knowledge,  had  ever  lived ! 

Althea  had  felt  bitterly  angered  as  well  as 
hurt.  Tears  had  welled  up  into  her  brown 
eyes ;  and  Mrs.  Panfillen,  intervening  with  far 
more  eager  decision  than  she  generally  showed 
about  even  important  matters,  had  cried, 
"  That's  not  fair!  In  fact  you  are  being  quite 
absurd,  Perceval!  I've  never  cared  for  Dick- 
ens, and  I'm  sure  most  people,  at  any  rate 
most  women,  who  say  they  like  him  are  pre- 
tending— pretending  all  the  time !  I  don't  be- 
lieve there's  a  girl  in  London  who  could  answer 
the  questions  you  put  to  Althea  just  now,  and 
if  there  is  such  a  girl  then  she's  a  literary 
monster,  and  I  for  one  don't  want  to  know 
her." 

As  only  answer  Scrope  had  turned  and  put 
a  thin  brown  finger  under  Althea's  chin. 
"  Crying?"  he  had  said,  "  Baby!  She  shan't 


14  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

be  made  to  learn  her  Dickens  if  she  doesn't 
want  to,  so  there ! " 

At  the  time  Althea  had  tried  to  smile,  but 
the  words  her  husband  had  used  had  hurt  her, 
horribly,  for  they  had  seemed  to  cast  a  reflec- 
tion on  her  father — the  father  who  thought  so 
much  of  education,  and  who  had  been  at  such 
pains  to  obtain  for  his  motherless  only  child  an 
ideal  chaperon-governess,  a  lady  who  had  al- 
ways lived  with  the  best  families  in  Newcastle. 
Miss  Burt  would  certainly  have  made  her 
pupil  read  Dickens  if  Dickens  were  in  any  real 
sense  an  educating  influence,  instead  of  writ- 
ing, as  Althea  had  always  understood  he  did, 
only  about  queer  and  vulgar  people. 

Not  educated?  Why,  her  father  had  sent 
her  away  from  him  for  a  whole  year  to  Dres- 
den, in  order  that  she  might  learn  German  and 
study  music  to  the  best  possible  advantage  1 
True,  she  had  not  learnt  her  French  in  France, 
for  her  father  had  a  prejudice  against  the 
French ;  he  belonged  to  a  generation  which  ad- 
mired Germany,  and  disliked  and  distrusted 
the  French.  She  had,  however,  been  taught 
French  by  an  excellent  teacher,  a  French  Prot- 
estant lady  who  had  lived  all  her  life  in  Eng- 
land. Of  course  Althea  had  never  read  a 
French  novel,  but  she  could  recite,  even  now, 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      15 

whole  pages  of  Racine  and  Corneille  by  heart. 

And  yet,  even  in  this  matter  of  languages, 
Perceval  was  unfair,  for  some  weeks  after  he 
had  said  that  cruel  thing  to  her  about  educa- 
tion, and  when  they  were  at  last  settling  down 
in  their  own  house,  arranging  the  details  of 
their  first  dinner  party,  he  had  said  to  her  with 
a  certain  abrupt  ill-humour,  "  The  one  lan- 
guage I  thought  you  did  know  was  menu- 
French!" 

Joan  Panfillen  was  also  disappointed  in  Al- 
thea.  Scrope's  Egeria  had  hoped  to  convert 
Scrope's  wife,  not  into  a  likeness  of  herself — 
she  was  far  too  clever  a  woman  to  hope  to  do 
that — but  into  a  bright,  cheerful  companion 
for  Perceval  Scrope's  lighter  hours.  She  had 
always  vaguely  supposed  that  this  was  the 
role  reserved  to  pretty,  healthy  young  women 
possessed  of  regular  features,  wavy  brown 
hair,  and  good  teeth.  .  .  . 

But  Mrs.  Panfillen  had  soon  realised,  and 
the  knowledge  brought  with  it  much  unease 
and  pain,  that  she  had  made  a  serious  mistake 
in  bringing  about  the  marriage.  And  yet  it 
had  been  necessary  to  do  something ;  there  had 
come  a  moment  when  not  only  she,  but  even 
Scrope  himself,  had  felt  that  he  must  be  lifted 
out  of  the  class — always  distrusted  and  de- 


16  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

spised  in  England — of  political  adventurers. 
Scrope  required,  more  than  most  men,  the  solid 
platform,  nay,  the  pedestal,  of  wealth,  and  ac- 
cordingly his  Egeria  had  sacrificed  herself  and, 
incidentally,  the  heiress,  Althea. 

But,  as  so  often  happens  to  those  who  make 
the  great  renouncement,  Joan  Panfillen  found 
that  after  all  no  such  thing  as  true  sacrifice  was 
to  be  required  of  her. 

After  his  marriage,  Scrope  was  more  often 
with  her  than  he  had  ever  been,  and  far  more 
willing,  not  only  to  ask  but  to  take,  his  Egeria's 
advice  on  all  that  concerned  his  brilliant,  mete- 
oric career.  He  seldom  mentioned  his  wife, 
but  Mrs.  Panfillen  knew  her  friend  far  too  well 
not  to  know  how  it  was  with  him;  Althea 
fretted  his  nerves,  offended  his  taste,  jarred 
his  conscience,  at  every  turn  of  their  joint  life. 

There  were,  however,  two  meagre  things  to 
the  good — Althea's  fortune,  the  five  thousand 
a  year,  which  now,  after  four  years,  did  not 
seem  so  large  an  income  as  it  had  seemed  at 
first;  and  the  fact  that  Scrope's  marriage  had 
extinguished  the  odious,  and,  what  was  much 
more  unpleasant  to  such  a  woman  as  was  Joan 
Panfillen,  the  ridiculous,  jealousy  of  Joan's 
husband. 

Thomas  Panfillen  greatly  admired  Althea; 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      17 

he  thought  her  what  she  was — a  very  lovely 
young  woman,  and  the  fact  that  he  had  known 
her  father  made  him  complacently  suppose 
that  he  had  brought  about  her  marriage  to  the 
peculiar,  he  was  told  the  remarkably  clever,  if 
rather  odd,  Perceval  Scrope. 

Baulked  of  certain  instinctive  rights,  the 
human  heart  seeks  compensation  as  surely  as 
water  seeks  its  level.  Althea,  unknown  to  her- 
self, had  a  compensation.  His  name  was  John 
Bustard.  He  was  in  a  public  office — to  be 
precise,  the  Privy  Council  Office.  He  lived  in 
rooms  not  far  from  his  work,  that  is,  not  far 
from  Delahay  Street,  and  he  had  got  into  the 
way  of  dropping  in  to  tea  two,  three,  some- 
times even  four  times  a  week. 

The  fact  that  Bustard  was  an  old  schoolfel- 
low of  Scrope's  had  been  his  introduction  to 
Althea  in  the  early  days  when  she  had  been 
conscientiously  anxious  to  associate  herself 
with  her  husband's  interests  past  and  present. 
But  of  the  innumerable  people  with  whom 
Scrope  had  brought  her  into  temporary  con- 
tact, Mr.  Bustard — she  always  called  him  Mr. 
Bustard,  as  did  most  other  people — was  the 
one  human  being  who,  being  the  fittest  as  re- 
garded herself,  survived. 

And  yet  never  had  there  been  a  man  less. 


18  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

suited  to  play  the  part  of  hero,  or  even  of  con- 
soler. Mr.  Bustard  was  short,  and  his  figure 
was  many  years  older  than  his  age,  which  was 
thirty-four.  While  forcing  himself  to  take 
two  constitutionals  a  day,  he  indulged  in  no 
other  manlier  form  of  exercise,  and  his  con- 
tempt for  golf  was  the  only  thing  that  tended 
to  a  lack  of  perfect  understanding  between  his 
colleagues  and  himself.  He  was  interested  in 
his  work,  but  he  tried  to  forget  it  when  he  was 
not  at  the  office.  Bustard  was  a  simple  soul, 
but  blessed  with  an  unformulated,  though 
none  the  less  real,  philosophy  of  life. 

Of  the  matter  nearest  his  heart  he  scarcely 
ever  spoke,  partly  because  he  had  always  sup- 
posed it  to  be  uninteresting  to  anyone  but  him- 
self, and  also  on  account  of  a  certain  thorny 
pride  which  prevented  his  being  willing  to  ask 
favours  from  the  indifferent. 

This  matter  nearest  Mr.  Bustard's  heart 
concerned  his  two  younger  brothers  and  an 
orphan  sister  whom  he  supremely  desired  to 
do  the  best  for,  and  to  set  well  forward  in  life. 

It  was  of  these  three  young  people  that  he 
and  Althea  almost  always  talked,  and  if  Al- 
thea  allowed  herself  to  have  an  ardent  wish,  it 
was  that  her  husband  would  permit  her  to  in- 
vite Mr.  Bustard's  sister  for  a  few  weeks  when 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      19 

the  girl  left  the  German  finishing  school  which 
she  and  Mr.  Bustard  had  chosen,  after  much 
anxious  deliberation,  a  year  before. 

It  soothed  Althea's  sore  heart  to  know  that 
there  was  at  least  one  person  in  her  husband's 
circle  who  thought  well  of  her  judgment,  who 
trusted  in  her  discretion,  and  who  did  her  the 
compliment  of  not  only  asking,  but  also  of  tak- 
ing her  advice. 

John  Bustard  had  formed  a  very  good  opin- 
ion of  Althea,  and,  constitutionally  incapable 
of  divining  the  causes  which  had  determined 
the  choice  of  Scrope's  wife,  he  considered  Mrs. 
Scrope  a  further  proof,  if  indeed  proof  were 
needed,  of  his  brilliant  schoolfellow's  acute  in- 
telligence. He  had  ventured  to  say  as  much 
to  Scrope's  late  official  chief,  one  of  the  few 
men  to  whom  Mr.  Bustard,  without  a  sufficient 
cause,  would  have  mentioned  a  lady's  name. 
But  he  had  been  taken  aback,  rather  disturbed, 
by  the  old  statesman's  dry  comment:  "Ay, 
there's  always  been  method  in  Scrope's  mad- 
ness. I  agree  that  he  has  made,  from  his  own 
point  of  view,  a  very  good  marriage." 

His  wife's  friendship  with  Mr.  Bustard  did 
not  escape  Perceval  Scrope's  ironic  notice.  He 
affected  to  think  his  old  schoolfellow  a  typical 
member  of  the  British  public,  and  he  had  nick- 


20  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

named  him  "  the  Bullometer,"  but,  finding  that 
his  little  joke  vexed  Althea,  he  had,  with  un- 
usual consideration,  dropped  it. 

Unfortunately  the  one  offensive  epithet  was 
soon  exchanged  for  another ;  in  allusion  doubt- 
less to  some  historical  personage  of  whom  Al- 
thea had  no  knowledge,  Scrope  began  to  call 
Bustard  her  fat  friend.  "  How's  your  fat 
friend? "  he  would  ask,  and  a  feeling  of  resent- 
ment filled  Althea's  breast.  It  was  not  John 
Bustard's  fault  that  he  had  a  bad  figure ;  it  was 
caused  by  the  sedentary  nature  of  his  work, 
and  because,  instead  of  spending  his  salary  in 
the  way  most  civil  servants  spend  theirs,  that 
is  in  selfish  amusements,  he  spent  it  on  his 
younger  brothers,  and  on  his  little  sister's  edu- 
cation. 

*  •  •  •  • 

Althea  again  went  over  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  It  had  now  left  off  snowing,  and 
the  mists  were  gathering  over  the  park.  Soon 
a  veil  of  fog  would  shut  out  the  still  landscape. 
If  Mr.  Bustard  were  coming  this  afternoon 
she  hoped  he  would  come  soon,  and  so  be  gone 
before  Perceval  came  in. 

Perceval  was  going  to  make  a  great  speech 
in  the  House  to-night,  and  Althea  was  rather 
ashamed  that  she  did  not  care  more.  He  had 


been  put  up  to  speak  against  those  who  had 
once  been  of  his  own  political  household  and 
who  now  regarded  him  as  a  renegade,  but  the 
subject  was  one  sure  to  inspire  him,  for  it  was 
that  which  he  had  made  his  own,  and  which  had 
led  to  his  secession  from  his  party.  Althea 
and  Mrs.  Panfillen  were  going  together  to  hear 
the  speech,  but,  to  his  wife's  surprise,  Scrope 
had  refused  to  dine  with  the  Panfillens  that 
same  evening. 

Perceval  Scrope  had  not  been  well.  To  his 
vexation  the  fact  had  been  mentioned  in  the 
papers.  The  intense  cold  had  tried  him — the 
cold,  and  a  sudden  visit  to  his  constituency. 

Althea  could  not  help  feeling  slightly  con- 
temptuous of  Perceval's  physical  delicacy. 
Her  husband  had  often  looked  ill  lately,  not 
as  ill  as  people  told  her  he  looked,  but  still  very 
far  from  well.  Only  to  herself  did  Althea  say 
what  she  felt  sure  was  the  truth,  namely  that 
Perceval's  state  was  due  to  himself,  due  to  his 
constant  rushing  about,  to  the  way  in  which 
he  persistently  over-excited  himself;  last,  but 
by  no  means  least,  to  the  way  he  ate  and  drank 
when  the  food  and  drink  pleased  him. 

Althea  judged  her  husband  with  the  clear, 
pitiless  eyes  of  youth,  but  none  of  those  about 
her  knew  that  she  so  judged  him.  Indeed, 


22  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

there  were  some  in  her  circle,  kindly  amiable 
folk,  who  believed,  and  said  perhaps  a  little  too 
loudly,  that  Althea  was  devoted  to  Perceval, 
and  that  their  marriage  was  one  of  those  de- 
lightful unions  which  are  indeed  made  in 
Heaven.  .  .  . 

From  the  further  corner  of  the  room  there 
came  the  sharp  ring  of  the  telephone  bell. 
No  doubt  a  message  saying  that  Perceval 
had  altered  his  plans  and  was  dining  out, 
alone. 

Insensibly  Althea's  lips  tightened.  She 
thought  she  knew  what  her  husband  was  about 
to  suggest.  She  felt  sure  that  he  would  tell 
her,  as  he  had  told  her  so  many  times  before 
when  he  had  failed  her,  to  offer  herself  to  Mrs. 
Panfillen  for  dinner. 

But  no — the  voice  she  heard  calling  her  by 
name  was  not  that  of  Perceval  Scrope.  It 
was  a  woman's  voice,  and  it  seemed  to  float  to- 
wards her  from  a  far  distance.  "  Althea," 
called  the  strange  voice,  "  Althea." 

"  Yes? "  she  said,  "  who  is  it?  I  can  hardly 
hear  you,"  and  then,  with  startling  closeness 
and  clearness — the  telephone  plays  one  such 
tricks — came  the  answer  in  a  voice  she  knew 
well,  "It  is  I — Joan  Panfillen!  Are  you 
alone,  Althea?  Yes?  Ahl  that's  good!  I 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      23 

want  you  to  do  me  a  kindness,  dear.  I 
want  you  to  come  round  here  now — at  once. 
Don't  tell  anyone  you  are  coming  to  me.  I 
have  a  reason  for  this.  Can  you  hear  what  I 
say,  Althea? " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  listener  hesitatingly,  "  yes, 
I  hear  you  quite  well  now,  Joan." 

"  Come  in  by  the  park  side,  I  mean  through 
the  garden — the  gate  is  unlocked,  and  I  will 
let  you  in  by  the  window.  Be  careful  as  you 
walk  across  the  flags,  it's  very  slippery  to- 
night. Can  you  come  now,  at  once? " 

Althea  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  she  an- 
swered, in  her  low,  even  voice,  "  Yes,  I'll  come 
now,  at  once." 

A  kindness?  What  kindness  could  she,  Al- 
thea Scrope,  do  Joan  Panfillen?  The  fear  of 
the  other  woman,  the  hidden  distrust  with 
which  she  regarded  her,  gathered  sudden  force. 
"Not  lately,  but  in  the  early  days  of  Scrope's 
marriage,  Mrs.  Panfillen  had  more  than  once 
tried  to  use  her  friend's  wife,  believing — 
strange  that  she  should  have  made  such  a  mis- 
take— that  Althea  might  succeed  where  she 
herself  had  failed  in  persuading  Scrope  for 
his  own  good.  Althea  now  told  herself  that 
no  doubt  Joan  wished  to  see  her  on  some  mat- 
ter connected  with  Perceval's  coming  speech. 


24.  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

As  this  thought  came  to  her  Althea's  white 
forehead  wrinkled  in  vexed  thought.  It  was 
too  bad  that  she  should  have  to  go  out  now, 
when  she  was  expecting  Mr.  Bustard,  to  whom 
she  had  one  or  two  rather  important  things  to 

say  about  his  sister But  stay,  why  should 

he  be  told  that  she  was  out?  Why  indeed 
should  she  be  still  out  when  Mr.  Bustard  did 
come?  It  was  not  yet  five  o'clock,  and  he  sel- 
dom came  before  a  quarter  past.  With  luck 
she  might  easily  go  over  to  Joan  Panfillen's 
house  and  be  back  before  he  came. 

Althea  walked  quickly  out  of  the  drawing- 
room  and  down  into  the  hall.  Her  fur  cloak 
had  been  carefully  hung  up  as  she  had  directed. 
Perceval  always  said  Luke  was  a  stupid  serv- 
ant, but  she  liked  Luke;  he  was  careful,  hon- 
est, conscientious,  a  very  different  type  of  man 
from  the  butler,  Dockett. 

Althea  passed  out  into  the  chilly,  foggy  air. 
Delahay  Street,  composed  of  a  few  high 
houses,  looked  dark,  forbidding,  deserted. 
She  had  often  secretly  wondered  why  her  hus- 
band chose  to  live  in  such  a  place.  Of  course 
she  knew  that  their  friends  raved  about  the 
park  side  of  the  house,  but  the  wife  of  Perceval 
Scrope  scarcely  ever  went  in  or  out  of  her  own 
door  without  remembering  a  dictum  of  her 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      25 

father's:  "Nothing  makes  up  for  a  good 
front  entrance." 

Althea  walked  quickly  towards  Great 
George  Street;  to  the  left  she  passed  Boar's 
Head  Yard,  where  lived  an  old  cabman  in 
whom  she  took  an  interest,  and  whose  cab  gen- 
erally stood  at  Storey's  Gate. 

How  strange  to  think  that  here  had  once 
stood  Oliver  Cromwell's  house !  Her  husband 
had  told  her  this  fact  very  soon  after  their  mar- 
riage; it  had  seemed  to  please  him  very  much 
that  they  lived  so  near  the  spot  where  Crom- 
well had  once  lived.  Althea  even  at  the  time 
had  thought  this  pleasure  odd,  in  fact  affected, 
on  Perceval's  part. 

If  the  great  Protector's  house  stood  there 
now,  filled  with  interesting  little  relics  of  the 
man,  she  could  have  understood,  perhaps  to  a 
certain  extent  sympathised  with,  Perceval's 
feeling,  for  Cromwell  had  been  one  of  her 
father's  heroes.  But  to  care  or  pretend  to 
care  for  a  vanished  association ! 

But  Perceval  was  like  that.  No  man  living 
— or  so  Althea  believed — was  so  full  of  strange 
whimsies  and  fads  as  was  Perceval  Scrope! 
And  so  thinking  of  him  she  suddenly  remem- 
bered, with  a  tightening  of  the  heart,  how 
often  her  husband's  feet  had  trodden  the  way 


26 

she  was  now  treading,  hastening  from  the 
house  which  she  had  just  left  to  the  house  to 
which  she  was  now  going. 

Jealous  of  Joan  Panfillen?  Nay,  Althea 
assured  herself  that  there  was  no  room  in  her 
heart  for  jealousy,  but  it  was  painful,  even 
more,  it  was  hateful,  to  know  that  there  were 
people  who  pitied  her  because  of  this  peculiar 
intimacy  between  Perceval  and  Joan.  Why, 
quite  lately,  there  had  been  a  recrudescence  of 
talk  about  their  friendship,  so  an  ill-bred  busy- 
body had  hinted  to  Althea  only  the  day  before. 

The  wife  was  dimly  aware  that  there  had 
been  a  time  when  Mrs.  Panfillen  had  hoped  to 
form  with  her  an  unspoken  compact;  each 
would  have  helped  the  other,  that  is,  to  "  man- 
age "  Perceval ;  but  the  moment  when  such  an 
alliance  would  have  been  possible  had  now 
gone  for  ever — even  if  it  had  ever  existed.  Al- 
thea would  have  had  to  have  been  a  different 
woman, — older,  cleverer,  less  scrupulous,  more 
indifferent  than  she  was,  even  now,  to  the  man 
she  had  married,  to  make  such  a  compact  pos- 
sible. 

When  about  to  cross  Great  George  Street 
she  stopped  and  hesitated.  Why  should  she 
do  this  thing,  why  leave  her  house  at  Joan 
Panfillen's  bidding?  But  Althea,  even  as  she 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      27 

hesitated,  knew  that  she  would  go  on.  She 
had  said  that  she  was  coming,  and  she  was  not 
one  to  break  lightly  even  a  light  word. 

As  she  crossed  Storey's  Gate,  she  noticed 
the  stationary  cab  of  the  old  man  who  lived  in 
Boar's  Head  Yard.  It  had  been  standing 
there  when  she  had  come  in  from  her  walk,  and 
she  felt  a  thrill  of  pity — the  old  man  made  a 
gallant  fight  against  misfortune.  She  and 
Joan  Panfillen  were  both  very  kind  to  him. 

Althea  told  herself  that  this  sad  world  is  full 
of  real  trouble,  and  the  thought  made  her 
ashamed  of  the  feelings  which  she  had  just  al- 
lowed to  possess  and  shake  her  with  jealous 
pain.  And  yet — yet,  though  many  people  en- 
vied her,  how  far  from  happy  Althea  knew 
herself  to  be,  and  how  terribly  grey  her  life 
now  looked,  stretching  out  in  front  of  her. 

As  she  passed  into  Birdcage  Walk,  and 
came  close  to  the  little  iron  gate  which  Mrs. 
Panfillen  had  told  her  was  unlocked,  she  saw 
that  a  woman  stood  on  the  path  of  the  tiny 
garden  behind  the  railings. 

Of  course  it  was  not  Joan  herself;  the 
thought  that  Joan,  delicate,  fragile  as  she  was, 
would  come  out  into  the  cold,  foggy  air  was 
unthinkable ;  scarcely  less  strange  was  it  to  see 
standing  there,  cloakless  and  hatless,  Joan's 


28  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

maid,  a  tall,  gaunt,  grey-haired  woman  named 
Bolt,  who  in  the  long  ago  had  been  nurse  to 
the  Panfillens'  dead  child.  Scrope  had  told 
Althea  the  story  of  the  brief  tragedy  very 
early  in  his  acquaintance  with  her;  he  had 
spoken  with  strong  feeling,  and  that  although 
the  child  had  been  born,  had  lived,  and  had 
died  before  he  himself  had  known  Joan. 

In  the  days  when  she  had  been  Mrs.  Pan- 
fillen's  guest,  that  is  before  her  marriage,  Al- 
thea had  known  the  maid  well,  known  and 
liked  her  grim  honesty  of  manner,  but  since 
Althea's  marriage  to  Perceval  Scrope  there 
had  come  a  change  over  Bolt's  manner.  She 
also  had  made  Althea  feel  that  she  was  an  in- 
terloper, and  now  the  sight  of  the  woman 
standing  waiting  in  the  cold  mist  disturbed 
her. 

Bolt  looked  as  if  she  had  been  there  a  very 
long  time,  and  yet  Althea  had  hurried ;  she  was 
even  a  little  breathless.  As  she  touched  the 
gate,  she  saw  that  it  swung  loosely.  Every- 
thing had  been  done  to  make  her  coming 
easy;  how  urgent  must  be  Joan's  need  of 
her! 

Althea  became  oppressed  with  a  vague  fear. 
She  looked  at  the  maid  questioningly.  '  Is 
Mrs.  Panfillen  ill?"  she  asked.  The  other 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      29 

shook  her  head.  "  There's  nothing  ailing  Mrs. 
Panfillen,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Together,  quite  silently,  they  traversed  the 
flagged  path,  and  then  Bolt  did  a  curious 
thing.  She  preceded  her  mistress's  visitor  up 
the  iron  steps  leading  to  the  boudoir  window, 
and  leaving  her  there,  on  the  little  balcony, 
went  down  again  into  the  garden,  and  once 
more  took  up  her  station  near  the  gate  as  if 
mounting  guard. 

The  long  French  window  giving  access  to 
the  boudoir  was  closed,  and  in  the  moment  that 
elapsed  before  it  was  opened  from  within  Al- 
thea  Scrope  took  unconscious  note  of  the  room 
she  knew  so  well,  and  of  everything  in  it,  in- 
cluding the  figure  of  the  woman  she  had  come 
to  see. 

It  was  a  panelled  octagon,  the  panels 
painted  a  pale  Wedgwood  blue,  while  just  be- 
low the  ceiling  concave  medallions  were  em- 
bossed with  flower  garlands  and  amorini. 

A  curious  change  had  been  made  since  Al- 
thea  had  last  seen  the  room.  An  old  six-leaved 
screen,  of  gold  so  faded  as  to  have  become  al- 
most silver  in  tint,  which  had  masked  the  door, 
now  stood  exactly  opposite  the  window  behind 
which  Althea  was  standing.  It  concealed  the 
straight  Empire  sofa  which,  as  Mr.  Panfillen 


30  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

was  fond  of  telling  his  wife's  friends,  on  the 
very  rare  occasions  when  he  found  himself  in 
this  room  with  one  of  them,  had  formerly  stood 
in  the  Empress  Josephine's  boudoir  at  Mal- 
maison;  and,  owing  to  the  way  it  was  now 
placed,  the  old  screen  formed  a  delicate  and 
charming  background  to  Mrs.  Panfillen's 
figure. 

Scrope's  Egeria  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  waiting  for  Scrope's  wife.  She  was 
leaning  forward  in  a  curious  attitude,  as  if  she 
were  listening,  and  the  lemon-coloured  shade 
of  the  lamp  standing  on  the  table  threw  a 
strange  gleam  on  her  lavender  silk  gown,  fash- 
ioned, as  were  ever  the  clothes  worn  by  Joan 
Panfillen,  with  a  certain  austere  simplicity  and 
disregard  of  passing  fashion. 

Althea  tapped  at  the  window,  and  the  wo- 
man who  had  sent  for  her  turned  round,  and, 
stepping  forward,  opened  the  window  wide. 

"  Come  in!  "  she  cried.  "  Come  in,  Althea 
— how  strange  that  you  had  to  knock!  I've 
been  waiting  for  you  so  long." 

"  I  came  as  quickly  as  I  could — I  don't 
think  I  can  have  been  five  minutes." 

Althea  stepped  through  the  window,  bring- 
ing with  her  a  blast  of  cold,  damp  air.  She 
looked  questioningly  at  Mrs.  Panfillen.  She 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      31 

felt,  she  hardly  knew  why,  trapped.  The 
other's  look  of  anxious,  excited  scrutiny  dis- 
turbed her. 

Mrs.  Panfillen's  fair  face,  usually  pale,  was 
flushed. 

So  had  she  reddened,  suddenly,  when  Althea 
had  come  to  tell  her  of  her  engagement  to  Per- 
ceval Scrope.  So  had  she  looked  when  stand- 
ing on  the  doorstep  as  Althea  and  Perceval 
started  for  their  honeymoon,  just  after  there 
had  taken  place  a  strange  little  scene — for 
Scrope,  following  the  example  of  Thomas 
Panfillen,  who  had  insisted  on  what  he  called 
saluting  the  bride,  had  taken  Panfillen's  wife 
into  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  Althea  " — Joan  took  the  younger  woman's 
hand  in  hers  and  held  it,  closely,  as  she  spoke, 
"don't  be  frightened, — but  Perceval  is  here, 
ill, — and  I've  sent  for  you  to  take  him  home." 

"  111?  "  A  look  of  dismay  came  over  Al- 
thea's  face.  "  I  hope  he's  not  too  ill  to  speak 
to-night — that  would  be  dreadful — he'd  be  ter- 
ribly upset,  terribly  disappointed !  "  Even  as 
she  spoke  she  knew  she  was  using  words  which 
to  the  other  would  seem  exaggerated,  a  little 
childish. 

"  I'm  sure  he'd  rather  you  took  him  home, 
I'm  sure  he'd  rather  not  be  found "  Mrs. 


32  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Panfillen  hesitated  a  moment,  and  again  she 
said  the  words  "  '  ill ', '  here ',"  and  for  the  first 
time  Althea  saw  that  there  was  a  look  of  great 
pain  and  strain  on  Joan's  worn,  sensitive 
face. 

"Of  course  not!"  said  the  young  wife 
quickly.  "  Of  course  he  mustn't  be  ill  here ;  he 
must  come  home,  at  once." 

Althea's  pride  was  protesting  hotly  against 
her  husband's  stopping  a  moment  in  a  house 
where  he  was  not  wanted — pride  and  a  certain 
resentment  warring  together  in  her  heart. 
How  strange  London  people  were!  This 
woman  whom  folk — the  old  provincial  word 
rose  to  her  lips — whom  folk  whispered  was 
over-fond  of  Perceval — why,  no  sooner  was  he 
ill  than  her  one  thought  was  how  to  get  rid  of 
him  quietly  and  quickly! 

Mrs.  Panfillen,  looking  at  her,  watching 
with  agonised  intensity  the  slow  workings  of 
Althea's  mind,  saw  quite  clearly  what  Perce- 
val's wife  was  feeling,  saw  it  with  a  bitter  sense 
of  what  a  few  moments  ago  she  would  have 
thought  inconceivable  she  could  ever  feel  again 
— amusement. 

She  went  across  to  the  window  and  opened 
it.  As  if  in  answer  to  a  signal,  the  little  iron 
gate  below  swung  widely  open :  "  Bolt  has 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      33 

gone  to  get  a  cab,"  she  said,  without  turning 
round ;  "  we  thought  that  it  would  be  simplest. 
The  old  cabman  knows  us  all — it  will  be 
quicker."  She  spoke  breathlessly,  but  there 
was  a  tone  of  decision  in  her  voice,  a  gentle  re- 
strained tone,  but  one  which  Althea  knew  well 
to  spell  finality. 

"But  where  is  Perceval?  " 

Althea  looked  round  her  bewildered.  She 
noticed,  for  the  first  time,  that  flung  carelessly 
across  two  chairs  lay  his  outdoor  coat,  his 
gloves,  his  stick,  his  hat.  Then  he  also  had 
come  in  by  the  park  side  of  the  house? 

Mrs.  Panfillen  went  towards  her  with  slow, 
hesitating  steps. 

"  He  is  here,"  she  said  in  a  low  tone,  "  behind 
the  screen.  He  was  sitting  on  the  sofa  read- 
ing me  the  notes  of  his  speech,  and — and  he  fell 
back."  She  began  moving  the  screen,  and  as 
she  did  so  she  went  on,  "  I  sent  for  Bolt — she 
was  a  nurse  once,  you  know,  and  she  got  the 
brandy  which  you  see  there " 

But  Althea  hardly  heard  the  words ;  she  was 
gazing,  with  an  oppressed  sense  of  discomfort 
and  fear,  at  her  husband.  Yes,  Perceval 
looked  ill — very  ill, — and  he  was  lying  in  so  pe- 
culiar a  position!  "I  suppose  when  people 
faint  they  have  to  put  them  like  that,"  thought 


84  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Althea  to  herself,  but  she  felt  concerned,  a  lit- 
tle frightened.  .  .  . 

Perceval  Scrope  lay  stretched  out  stiffly  on 
the  sofa,  his  feet  resting  on  a  chair  which  had 
been  placed  at  the  end  of  the  short,  frail-look- 
ing little  couch.  His  fair,  almost  lint  white, 
hair  was  pushed  back  from  his  forehead,  show- 
ing its  unusual  breadth.  The  grey  eyes  were 
half  closed,  and  he  was  still  wearing,  wound 
about  his  neck  so  loosely  that  it  hid  his  mouth 
and  chin,  a  silk  muffler. 

Althea  had  the  painful  sensation  that  he  did 
not  like  her  to  be  there,  that  it  must  be  acutely 
disagreeable  to  him  to  feel  that  she  saw  him  in 
such  a  condition  of  helplessness  and  unease. 
And  yet  she  went  on  looking  at  him,  strangely 
impressed,  not  so  much  by  the  rigidity,  as  by 
the  intense  stillness  of  his  body.  Scrope  as  a 
rule  was  never  still ;  when  he  was  speaking,  his 
whole  body,  each  of  his  limbs,  spoke  with  him. 

By  the  side  of  the  sofa  was  a  small  table,  on 
which  stood  a  decanter,  unstoppered. 

"Has  he  been  like  that  long?"  Althea 
whispered  at  length.  "  He — he  looks  so 
strange." 

Joan  Panfillen  came  close  up  to  the  younger 
woman;  again  she  put  her  hand  on  her  com- 
panion's arm. 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      35 

"  Althea,"  she  said,  "  don't  you  understand? 
Can't  you  see  the  dreadful  thing  that  has  hap- 
pened? " — and  as  the  other  looked  down  into 
the  quivering  face  turned  up  to  hers,  she  added 
with  sudden  passion,  "  Should  I  want  you  to 
take  him  away  if  he  were  still  here? — should  I 
want  him  to  go  if  there  were  anything  left  that 
I  could  do  for  him?  " 

And  then  Althea  at  last  understood,  and  so 
understanding  her  mind  for  once  moved 
quickly,  and  she  saw  with  mingled  terror  and 
revolt  what  it  was  that  the  woman  on  whose 
face  her  eyes  were  now  riveted  was  requiring 
of  her. 

'  You  sent  for  me  to  take  him  home — 
dead?" 

It  was  a  statement  rather  than  a  question. 
Mrs.  Panfillen  made  a  scarcely  perceptible 
movement  of  assent.  "It  is  what  he  would 
have  wished,"  she  whispered,  "  I  am  quite 
sure  it  is  what  he  would  have  wished  you  to 
do." 

"  I — I  am  sorry,  but  I  don't  think  I  can  do 
that." 

Althea  was  speaking  to  herself  rather  than 
to  the  other  woman.  She  was  grappling  with 
a  feeling  of  mortal  horror  and  fear.  She  had 
always  been  afraid  of  Perceval  Scrope,  afraid 


36  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

and  yet  fascinated,  and  now  he,  dead,  seemed 
to  be  even  more  formidable,  more  beckoning, 
than  he  had  been  alive. 

She  turned  away  and  covered  her  eyes  with 
her  hand.  "  Why  did  you  tell  me  ?  "  she  asked, 
a  little  wildly.  "  If  you  hadn't  told  me  that 
he  was  dead  I  should  never  have  known.  I 
should  even  have  done  the — the  dreadful  thing 
you  want  me  to  do." 

"  Bolt  thought  that — Bolt  said  you  would 
not  know,"  Mrs.  Panfillen  spoke  with  sombre 
energy.  "  She  wished  me  to  allow  her  to  take 
him  down  into  the  garden  to  meet  you  in  the 

darkness But, — but  Althea,  that  would 

have   been   an  infamous   thing   from  me   to 

you "     She  waited  a  moment,  and  then  in 

a  very  different  voice,  in  her  own  usual  meas- 
ured and  gentle  accents,  she  added,  "  My  dear, 
forgive  me.  We  will  never  speak  of  this 
again.  I  was  wrong,  selfish,  to  think  of  sub- 
jecting you  to  such  an  ordeal.  All  I  ask  " 
and  there  came  into  her  tone  a  sound  of  shamed 
pleading — "  is  that  you  should  allow  Tom 
— Tom  and  other  people — to  think  that  you 
were  here  when  it  happened." 

Althea  remained  silent.  Then,  uncertainly, 
she  walked  across  to  the  window  and  opened  it. 
The  action  was  symbolic — and  so  it  was  un- 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      37 

derstood  by  the  woman  watching  her  so  anx- 
iously. 

But  still  Althea  said  nothing.  She  stood 
looking  out  into  the  darkness,  welcoming  the 
feel  of  the  cold  damp  air.  She  gave  herself  a 
few  brief  moments — they  seemed  very  long 
moments  to  Joan  Panfillen — before  she  said 
the  irrevocable  words,  and  when  she  did  say 
them,  they  sounded  muffled,  and  uttered  from 
far  away,  for  Althea  as  she  spoke  did  not  turn 
round ;  she  feared  to  look  again  on  that  which 
might  unnerve  her,  render  her  unfit  for  what 
she  was  about  to  do. 

"  Joan,"  she  said,  "  I  will  do  what  you  ask. 
You  were  right  just  now — right,  I  mean,  in 
telling  me  what  Perceval  would  have  wished." 

She  spoke  with  nervous,  dry  haste,  and,  to 
her  relief,  the  other  woman  spared  her 
thanks.  .  .  . 

There  was  a  long  silence,  and  then  Mrs. 
Panfillen  crept  up  close  to  Althea  and  touched 
her,  making  her  start  violently.  "  Then  I  will 
call  Bolt,"  she  said,  and  made  as  if  to  pass 
through  the  window,  but  Althea  stopped  her 
with  a  quick  movement  of  recoil — "  No,  no ! 
she  cried,  "  let  me  do  that !  "  and  she  ran  down 
the  iron  steps ;  it  was  good  to  be  ought  of  sight 
even  for  a  moment  of  the  still  presence  of  the 


38  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

dead — the  dead  whose  mocking  spirit  seemed 
to  be  still  terribly  alive. 

But  during  the  long,  difficult  minutes  that 
followed,  it  was  Joan  Panfillen,  not  Althea 
Scrope,  who  shrank  and  blenched.  It  was  Al- 
thea who  put  out  her  young  strength  to  help  to 
lift  the  dead  man,  and,  under  cover  of  the  shel- 
tering mist,  to  make  the  leaden  feet  retrace 
their  steps  down  the  iron  stairway,  and  along 
the  narrow  path  they  had  so  often  leapt  up  and 
along  with  eager  haste. 

To  two  of  the  three  women  the  progress 
seemed  intolerably  slow,  but  to  Althea  it  was 
all  too  swift ;  she  dreaded  with  an  awful  dread 
the  companioned  drive  which  lay  before  her. 

Perhaps  something  of  what  she  was  feeling 
was  divined  by  Mrs.  Panfillen,  for  at  the  very 
last  Scrope's  Egeria  forgot  self,  and  made,  in 
all  sincerity,  an  offer  which  on  her  part  was 
heroic. 

"  Shall  I  come  with  you?  "  she  whispered, 
averting  her  eyes  from  that  which  lay  huddled 
up  by  Althea's  side,  "  I  will  come,  willingly; 
let  me  come — Althea." 

But  Althea  only  shook  her  head  in  cold,  hur- 
ried refusal.  She  felt  that  with  speech  would 
go  a  measure  of  her  courage. 

Afterwards  Althea  remembered  that  there 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      39 

had  come  a  respite, — what  had  seemed  to  her  at 
the  time  an  inexplicable  delay.  A  man  and  a 
girl  had  gone  slowly  by,  staring  curiously  at 
the  two  bare-headed  women  standing  out  on 
the  pavement,  and  on  whose  pale  faces  there 
fell  the  quivering  gleam  of  the  old-fashioned 
cab  lamp.  Then,  when  the  footfalls  of  these 
passers-by  had  become  faint,  Bolt  spoke  to  the 
driver,  and  handed  him  some  money.  Althea 
heard  the  words  as  in  dream,  "  Get  along  as 
quick  as  you  can  to  24,  Delahay  Street,  there's 
a  good  man,"  and  then  the  clink  of  silver  in  the 
stillness,  followed  by  the  full  sound  of  the 
man's  wheezy  gratitude. 

There  came  a  sudden  movement  and  the 
dread  drive  began,  the  horse  slipping,  the  cab 
swaying  and  jolting  over  the  frozen  ground. 

With  a  gesture  which  was  wholly  instinctive, 
Althea  put  out  her  arm, — her  firm,  rounded, 
living  arm, — and  slipped  it  round  the  inert, 
sagging  thing  which  had  been  till  an  hour  ago 
Perceval  Scrope.  And,  as  she  did  so,  as  she 
pressed  him  to  her,  and  kept  from  him  the 
ignominy  of  physical  helplessness,  there  came 
a  great  lightening  of  her  spirit. 

Fear,  the  base  fear  bred  of  the  imagination, 
fell  away  from  her.  For  the  first  time  there 
came  the  certainty  that  her  husband  was  at  last 


40  STUDIES  EST  WIVES 

satisfied  with  her;  for  the  first  time  she  was 
able  to  do  Perceval  Scrope  dead  what  she  had 
never  been  able  to  do  Perceval  Scrope  alive, 
a  great  service — a  service  which  she  might  have 
refused  to  do. 

Once  or  twice,  very  early  in  their  married 
life,  Perceval  had  praised  her,  and  his  praise 
had  given  Althea  exquisite  pleasure  because  it 
was  so  rare,  so  seldom  lavished ;  and  this  long- 
lost  feeling  of  joy  in  her  husband's  approval 
came  back,  filling  her  eyes  with  tears.  Now 
at  last  Althea  felt  as  if  she  and  Perceval 
Scrope  were  one,  fused  in  that  kindly  sympa- 
thy and  understanding  which,  being  the  man- 
ner of  woman  she  was,  Althea  supposed  to  be 
the  very  essence  of  conjugal  love. 

As  they  were  clasped  together,  she,  the 
quick,  he,  the  dead,  Althea  lost  count  of  time ; 
it  might  have  been  a  moment,  it  might  have 
been  an  hour,  when  at  last  the  jolting  ceased. 

As  the  old  man  got  off  the  box  of  his  cab, 
and  rang  the  bell,  Big  Ben  boomed  out  the 
quarter-past  five. 

Since  she  had  last  gone  through  that  door  a 
yawning  gap  had  come  in  Althea's  life,  a  gap 
which  she  had  herself  bridged.  Fear  had 
dropped  from  her;  she  could  never  again  be 
afraid  as  she  had  been  afraid  when  she,  Joan 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY,      41 

and  Perceval  had  formed  for  the  last  time  a 
trinity.  The  feeling  which  had  so  upheld  her, 
the  feeling  that  for  the  first  time  she  and  her 
husband  were  in  unison,  gave  her  not  only 
courage  but  serenity  of  spirit.  Althea  shrank 
from  acting  a  lie,  but  she  saw,  for  the  first  time., 
through  Perceval  Scrope's  eyes,  and  she  ad- 
mitted the  necessity. 

As  the  door  opened,  she  remembered,  almost 
with  exultation,  that  Dockett,  the  butler,  was 
out,  and  that  it  was  only  with  Luke,  the  slow 
young  footman,  that  she  would  have  to  deal. 
As  she  saw  his  tall,  thin  figure  emerge  hesitat- 
ingly into  the  street,  Mrs.  Scrope  called  out  in 
a  strong,  confident  voice,  "  Luke — come  here  I 
Help  me  to  get  Mr.  Scrope  indoors.  He  is  ill ; 
and  as  soon  as  we  have  got  him  into  the  morn- 
ing room,  you  must  go  off  for  a  doctor,  at 
once " 

She  waved  aside  the  cabman  almost  impa- 
tiently, and  it  was  Althea,  Althea  helped  by 
Luke,  who  carried  Perceval  Scrope  over  the 
threshold  of  his  own  house,  and  so  into  a  small 
room  on  the  ground  floor,  a  room  opening 
out  of  the  hall,  and  looking  out  on  to  the 
street. 

"  He  looks  very  bad,  don't  'e,  ma'am? " 
Luke  was  startled  out  of  his  acquired  pas- 


42  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

sivity.  "  I'd  better  go  right  off  now."  She 
bent  her  head. 

And  then  Althea,  again  alone  with  the  dead 
man,  suddenly  became  oppressed  once  more 
with  fear,  not  the  physical  terror  which  had 
possessed  her  when  Joan  Panfillen  had  told  her 
the  awful  truth,  but  none  the  less  to  her  a  very 
agonising  form  of  fear.  Althea  was  afraid 
that  now,  when  approaching  the  end  of  her 
ordeal,  she  would  fail  Scrope  and  the  woman 
he  had  loved.  What  was  she  to  say,  what 
story  could  she  invent  to  tell  those  who  would 
come  and  press  her  with  quick  eager  questions? 
She  knew  herself  to  be  incapable,  not  only  of 
untruth,  but  of  invention,  and  yet  now  both 
were  about  to  be  required  of  her. 

Althea  turned  out  the  lights,  and  wandered 
out  into  the  hall.  She  felt  horribly  lonely; 
with  the  exception  of  the  kindly,  stupid  youth 
who  had  now  gone  to  find  a  doctor,  there  was 
not  a  member  of  her  considerable  household  in 
sufficient  human  sympathy  with  her  to  be 
called  to  her  aid. 

She  remembered  with  a  pang  that  this  ques- 
tion of  their  servants  had  been  one  of  the  many 
things  concerning  which  there  had  been  deep 
fundamental  disagreement  between  her  hus- 
band and  herself.  She  had  been  accustomed 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      43 

to  a  well-ordered,  decorous  household,  and 
would  even  have  enjoyed  managing  such  a 
one;  but  Perceval — Perceval  influenced  by 
Dockett — had  ordained  otherwise,  and  Althea 
had  soon  become  uneasily  aware  that  the  order 
and  decorum  reigning  below  stairs  were  only 
apparent.  Even  now  there  came  up  from  the 
basement  the  sound  of  loud  talking,  of  unre- 
strained laughter. 

Suddenly  someone  knocked  at  the  door,  a 
loud  double  knock  which  stilled,  as  if  by  magic, 
the  murmur  of  the  voices  below. 

Althea  looked  around  her  doubtfully,  then 
she  retreated  into  the  darkened  room,  but  no 
one  came  up,  and  she  remembered  that  the 
other  servants  of  course  supposed  Luke  to  be 
on  duty.  It  might  be — nay,  it  almost  certainly 
was — the  doctor.  With  faltering  steps  she 
again  came  out  into  the  hall  and  opened  the 
front  door ;  and  then,  when  she  saw  who  it  was 
who  stood  there,  his  kind  honest  eyes  blinking 
in  the  sudden  light,  Althea  began  to  cry. 

The  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks;  she  sighed 
convulsively,  and  John  Bustard,  looking  at  her 
with  deep  concern  and  dismay,  was  quite  una- 
ware— he  does  not  know  even  to  this  day — 
that  it  was  with  relief. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said.     "My  dear  Mrs. 


44  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Scrope — what  is  the  matter?  Would  you  like 
me  to  go  away — or — or  can  I  be  of  any  use  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  said  piteously.  "  Indeed  you 
can  be  of  use.  Don't  go  away — stay  with  me 
— I'm — I'm  so  frightened,  Mr.  Bustard.  Per- 
ceval— poor  Perceval  is — is  ill,  and  I'm  afraid 
to  stay  in  there  with  him." 

And  it  was  Mr.  Bustard  who  at  once  took 
command — command  of  Althea,  whom  he  ulti- 
mately ordered  to  bed ;  command  of  the  excited 
household,  whose  excitement  he  sternly  sup- 
pressed ;  it  was  Mr.  Bustard  who,  believing  he 
told  truth,  lied  for  Althea,  first  to  the  doctor, 
and  later  to  the  coroner. 

"  How  fortunate  it  was  for  poor  Althea  that 
Mr.  Bustard,  that  nice  little  man  in  the  Privy 
Council  Office,  was  actually  in  the  house  when 
poor  Perceval  Scrope's  death  took  place ! " 
bold  and  cruel  people  would  say  to  Mrs.  Pan- 
fillen,  watching  the  while  to  see  how  she  took 
their  mention  of  the  dead  man's  name. 

"Yes,"  she  would  answer  them  quietly. 
"  Very  fortunate  indeed.  And  it  was  so  kind 
of  Mr.  Bustard  to  get  his  sister  to  go  away 
with  Althea.  Poor  Althea  is  so  alone  in  the 
world.  I  hope  she  will  come  and  stay  with  us 
when  she  comes  back  to  town;  we  were  Perce- 
val Scrope's  oldest,  I  might  say  closest,  friends. 


ALTHEA'S  OPPORTUNITY      45 

You  know  that  their  marriage — his  and  Al- 
thea's — took  place  from  our  house?  " 

The  only  human  being  who  scented  a  mys- 
tery was  Dockett — Dockett,  who  was  mindful, 
as  he  had  a  right  to  be,  of  his  lawful  perquisites, 
and  who  will  never  forgive  himself  for  having 
been  out  on  that  fateful  afternoon. 

"I'd  give  something  to  know  the  where- 
abouts of  Mr.  Scrope's  overcoat,  to  say  noth- 
ing of  his  hat  and  stick.  That  common  ash 
stick's  a  relic — it  may  be  worth  money  some 
day ! "  he  observed  threateningly  to  the  foot- 
man. But  Luke,  as  only  answer,  stared  at  him 
with  stolid  dislike. 

Luke  had  seen  nothing  of  the  hat  and  stick; 
no  doubt  they  had  been  left  in  the  cab  in  which 
Mr.  Scrope  had  come  back,  ill,  from  the 
House.  As  for  the  overcoat,  it  had  probably 
disappeared  in  the  confusion,  the  hurried  com- 
ing and  going,  of  that  evening  when  Luke  had 
been  almost  run  off  his  legs  answering  the 
door,  and  his  head  made  quite  giddy  answering 
enquiries.  But  it  was  not  Luke's  business  to 
say  what  he  thought  or  did  not  think.  With 
such  a  man  as  Mr.  Dockett,  it  only  led  to  un- 
pleasantness. 


II 

MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE 


"  ABOUT  that  letter  of  your  uncle's?  I  take  it 
you  have  no  one  to  suggest?  " 

Thomas  Garden  glanced  anxiously  at  the 
son  in  whom  he  had  so  strong  a  confidence,  and 
who  was  the  secret  pride  of  his  eyes,  the  only 
love  of  his  austere,  hard-working  life. 

The  two  were  a  great  contrast  to  one  an- 
other. The  older  man  was  short  and  slight, 
with  the  delicate,  refined,  spiritual  face,  so 
often  seen  in  the  provincial  man  of  business  be- 
longing to  that  disappearing  generation  of 
Englishmen  who  found  time  to  cultivate  the 
things  of  the  mind  as  well  as  the  material  in- 
terests of  life.  A  contrast,  indeed,  to  the  tall, 
singularly  handsome,  alert-looking  man  whom 
he  had  just  addressed,  and  whose  perfect 
physical  condition  made  him  appear  somewhat 
younger  than  his  thirty-two  years. 

And  yet,  in  spite  or  perhaps  because  of  this 
contrast  between  them,  the  two  were  bound  in 
the  closest,  if  not  exactly  in  the  most  confiden- 
tial, ties  of  affection.  And,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  they  were  partners  in  the  great  metal- 

49 


50  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

broking  business  of  Josh.  Garden,  Thomas 
Garden  and  Son,  which  had  been  built  up  by 
three  generations  of  astute,  self-respecting 
citizens  of  Birmingham. 

It  was  Easter  Monday,  and  the  two  men 
were  lingering  over  breakfast,  in  a  way  they 
seldom  allowed  themselves  time  to  do  on  ordi- 
nary week-days,  in  the  finely  proportioned, 
book-lined  dining-room  of  one  of  those  spa- 
cious old  houses  which  remain  to  prove  that  the 
suburb  of  Edgbaston  was  still  country  a  hun- 
dred years  ago. 

Theodore  Garden  looked  across  the  table 
meditatively.  He  had  almost  forgotten  his 
uncle's  letter,  for,  since  that  letter  had  been 
read  and  cursorily  discussed,  he  and  his  father 
had  been  talking  of  a  matter  infinitely  more 
important  to  them  both.  The  matter  in  ques- 
tion was  the  son's  recent  engagement  and  com- 
ing marriage,  a  marriage  which  was  a  source 
of  true  satisfaction  to  the  older  man.  His 
father's  unselfish  joy  in  the  good  thing  which 
had  befallen  him  touched  Theodore  Garden 
keenly,  for  the  niche  occupied  in  most  men's 
minds  by  their  intimate  feminine  circle  was 
filled  in  that  of  the  young  man  by  the  diminu- 
tive figure  of  the  senior  partner  of  Garden  and 
Son. 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  51 

As  is  perhaps  more  often  the  case  than  those 
who  despise  human  nature  believe,  many  have 
the  grace  to  reverence  and  admire  the  qualities 
in  which  they  know  themselves  to  be  deficient. 
Such  a  man  was  the  younger  Garden. 

To-day  the  depths  had  been  stirred,  and  he 
let  his  mind  dwell  with  a  certain  sense  of  shame 
and  self-rebuke  on  his  own  and  his  father's 
ideals  of  human  conduct.  Even  as  a  school- 
boy, Theodore  had  come  to  realise  how  much 
more  he  knew  of  the  ugly  side  of  life  than  did 
his  father.  But  then,  old  Mr.  Garden  was 
quite  exceptional;  he  knew  nothing — or  so  at 
least  his  son  believed,  and  loved  him  for  it — 
of  the  temptations,  conflicts,  victories,  and 
falls  of  the  average  sensual  man. 

Theodore's  father  had  been  engaged,  at 
twenty,  to  a  girl  of  his  own  age  whom  he  had 
not  been  able  to  marry  till  twelve  years  later ; 
she  had  left  him  a  widower  with  this  one  child 
after  five  years  of  married  life,  and  Thomas 
Garden,  as  he  had  himself  once  told  his  son  in 
a  moment  of  unwonted  confidence,  had  been 
absolutely  faithful  to  her  before  the  marriage 
and  since  her  death. 

The  woman — many  people  would  have  said 
the  very  fortunate  young  woman — who  was  so 
soon  to  become  Mrs.  Theodore  Garden  would 


52  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

not  possess  such  a  husband  as  Thomas  Garden 
had  been  to  his  wife. 

And  yet,  in  his  heart,  Theodore  was  well 
aware  that  the  gentle  girl  he  loved  would  prob- 
ably be  a  happier  woman  than  his  own  mother 
had  been,  for  he,  unlike  his  father,  in  his  deal- 
ings with  the  other  sex  could  call  up  at  will  that 
facile  and  yet  rather  rare  gift  of  tenderness 
which  women,  so  life  had  taught  him,  value 
far  more  than  the  deeper,  inarticulate 
love.  .  .  . 

Garden  came  back  to  the  prosaic  question  of 
his  uncle's  letter  with  a  distinct  effort. 

"Havel  anyone  to  suggest?"  he  echoed. 
"  I  have  no  one  to  suggest,  father.  I  know,  of 
course,  exactly  the  sort  of  man  Uncle  Barrett 
is  looking  for;  he's  asking  us  to  find  him  the 
perfect  clerk  every  man  of  business  has  sought 
for  at  some  time  or  other.  If  I  were  you  I 
should  write  and  tell  him  that  the  man  he  wants 
us  to  find  never  has  to  look  outside  England 
for  a  job,  and,  what  is  more,  would  rather  be 
a  clerk  here — if  he's  any  sense — than  a  part- 
ner in  New  Zealand !  " 

A  smile  quivered  for  a  moment  over  the 
young  man's  shrewd  face;  his  uncle  was  evi- 
dently seeking  such  a  man  as  he  was  himself, 
but  such  men,  so  Theodore  Garden  was  able  to 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  53 

tell  himself  without  undue  conceit,  were  not 
likely  to  go  into  voluntary  exile  even  with  the 
bribe  of  eventual  partnership  in  a  flourishing 
business. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  again  the  older 
man  broke  the  silence  with  something  entirely 
irrelevant  to  the  subject  which  was  filling  the 
minds  of  his  son  and  himself. 

"  You  haven't  looked  at  the  Post  this  morn- 
ing? There's  nothing  in  it.  Dearth  of  real 
news  is,  I  suppose,  responsible  for  this? "  and 
he  pointed,  frowning  as  he  spoke,  to  a  column 
on  the  middle  page  headed  "  The  Jarvice 
Mystery.  New  Developments." 

Again  a  shrewd,  good-humoured  smile  quiv- 
ered on  his  son's  firm  mouth. 

"  In  these  days  newspapers  have  to  follow, 
not  lead,  the  public  taste.  Very  few  people 
are  honestly  as  indifferent  as  you  are,  father, 
to  that  sort  of  story.  Now  even  I,  who  never 
met  poor  old  Jarvice,  cannot  help  wondering 
how  he  came  by  his  death;  and  yet  you,  who 
knew  the  man " 

"  I  knew  him,"  said  the  other  with  a  touch 
of  impatience,  "  as  I  know,  and  as  you  know, 
dozens  of  our  fellow-townsmen." 

"  Never  mind ;  you,  at  any  rate,  can  put  a 
face  to  the  man's  name;  and  yet  the  question 


54,  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

as  to  whether  he  was  or  was  not  poisoned  by 
his  wife,  is  one  of  indifference  to  you!  Now  I 
submit  that  in  this  indifference  you  are  really 

a  little "  he  hesitated  for  a  word,  but  found 

that  none  so  well  expressed  his  thought  as  that 
which  had  first  arisen  to  his  lips — "  peculiar, 
father." 

"  Am  I?  "  said  Thomas  Garden  slowly;  " am 
I  so,  Theodore?  Nay,  nay,  I  deny  that  I  am 
indifferent!  Lane" — Major  Lane  was  at 
that  time  Head  Constable  of  Birmingham,  and 
a  lifelong  friend  of  the  speaker — "Lane  was 
quite  full  of  it  last  night.  He  insisted  on  tell- 
ing me  all  the  details  of  the  affair,  and  what 
shocked  me,  my  boy,  was  not  so  much  the  ques- 
tion which,  of  course,  occupied  Lane — that  is, 
as  to  whether  that  unhappy  young  woman  poi- 
soned her  husband  or  not — but  the  whole  state 
of  things  which  he  disclosed  about  them. 
Lane  told  me  certain  facts  concerning  Jarvice, 
whom,  as  you  truly  say,  I  have  known,  in  a 
sense,  for  years,  which  I  should  not  have 
thought  possible  of  any  man — vile  things, 
which  should  have  prevented  his  thinking  of 
marriage,  especially  of  marriage  with  a 
young  wife." 

Theodore  Garden  remained  silent;  he  never 
discussed  unsavoury  subjects  with  his  father. 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  55 

Moreover,  he  had  no  liking  for  Major  Lane, 
though  he  regarded  him  with  considerable  re- 
spect, and  even  with  a  feeling  of  gratitude. 
Some  years  before,  the  Head  Constable  had 
helped  the  young  man  out  of  a  serious  scrape, 
the  one  real  scrape — so  Garden  was  compla- 
cently able  to  assure  himself — engendered 
by  his  systematic  and  habitual  pursuit  of 
women. 

Even  now  he  could  not  recall,  without  winc- 
ing, the  interview  he  had  had  on  that  occasion 
with  his  father's  friend.  During  that  inter- 
view Garden  had  felt  himself  thoroughly  con- 
demned, and  even  despised,  by  the  older  man, 
and  he  had  been  made  to  feel  that  it  was  only 
for  the  sake  of  his  father — his  high-minded, 
unsuspicious  father — that  he  was  being  saved 
from  the  public  exposure  of  a  peculiarly  sor- 
did divorce  suit. 

But  it  was  in  all  sincerity  that  the  young 
man  now  felt  indignant  with  Major  Lane  for 
having  distressed  such  a  delicately  spiritual 
soul  as  was  Thomas  Garden  with  the  hidden 
details  of  the  Jarvice  story.  After  all,  what 
interested  the  public  was  not  the  question  of 
Jarvice's  moral  character,  but  whether  a  gently 
nurtured  and  attractive  woman  had  carried 
through  a  sinister  and  ingenious  crime,  which, 


56  STUDIES    IN  WIVES 

but  for  a  mere  accident,  would  have  utterly 
defied  detection. 

Theodore  Garden  got  up  from  the  breakfast 
table  and  walked  over  to  a  circular  bow  win- 
dow which  commanded  charming  views  of  the 
wide  sloping  garden,  interspersed  with  the 
streams  and  tiny  ponds,  which  gave  the  house 
its  name  of  Watermead,  and  which  enabled 
old  Mr.  Garden  to  indulge  himself  with  espe- 
cial ease  in  his  hobby  of  water  gardening. 

Standing  there,  the  young  man  began  won- 
dering what  he  should  do  with  himself  this 
early  spring  day. 

His  fiancee  had  just  left  the  quiet  lodgings, 
which  she  and  her  mother,  a  clergyman's 
widow,  had  occupied  in  Birmingham  during 
the  last  few  weeks,  to  pay  visits  to  relatives  in 
the  south  of  England.  The  thought  of  going 
to  any  of  the  neighbouring  houses  where  he 
knew  himself  to  be  sure  of  a  warm  welcome, 
and  where  the  news  of  his  engagement  would 
be  received  with  boisterous  congratulations, 
tempered  in  some  cases  with  an  underlying 
touch  of  regret  and  astonishment,  filled  him 
with  repugnance. 

The  girl  he  had  chosen  to  be  his  wife  was  ab- 
solutely different  from  the  women  who  had 
hitherto  attracted  him;  he  reverenced  as  well 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  57 

as  loved  her,  and  hitherto  Theodore  Garden 
had  never  found  reverence  to  be  in  any  sense 
a  corollary  of  passion,  while  he  had  judged 
women  by  those  who  were  attractive  to,  or,  as 
was  quite  as  often  the  case,  attracted  by,  him- 
self. 

The  last  few  days  had  brought  a  great 
change  in  his  life,  and  one  which  he  meant 
should  be  permanent ;  and  yet,  in  spite  or  per- 
haps because  of  this,  as  he  stood  staring  with 
absent  eyes  into  his  father's  charming  garden, 
he  found  his  mind  dwelling  persistently  on  the 
only  one  of  his  many  amorous  adventures 
which  had  left  a  deep,  an  enduring,  and,  it 
must  be  admitted,  a  most  delightful  mark  on 
the  tablets  of  his  memory. 

The  whole  thing  was  still  so  vivid  to  him  that 
half-involuntarily  he  turned  round  and  looked 
down  the  long  room  to  where  his  old  father 
was  sitting.  How  amazed,  above  all  how 
shocked  and  indignant,  the  man  for  whom  he 
had  so  great  an  affection  and  respect  would 
feel  if  he  knew  the  pictures  which  were  now 
floating  before  his  son's  retrospective  vision! 

Like  most  thinking  human  beings,  Theodore 
Garden  had  not  lived  to  his  present  age  without 
being  struck  by  the  illogical  way  the  world 
wags.  Accordingly,  he  was  often  surprised 


58  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

and  made  humorously  indignant  by  the  curious 
moral  standards — they  had  so  many  more  than 
one — of  the  conventional  people  among  whom 
it  was  his  fate  to  dwell  and  have  his  social  be- 
ing. 

Not  one  of  the  men  he  knew,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  his  father,  and  of  those  others — a  small 
number  truly — whom  he  believed  to  be  sin- 
cerely, not  conventionally,  religious,  but  would 
have  envied  him  the  astonishing  adventure 
which  reconstituted  itself  so  clearly  before  him 
to-day — and  yet  not  one  of  them  but  would 
have  been  ready  to  condemn  him  for  having 
done  what  he  had  done.  Theodore  Garden, 
however,  so  often  tempted  to  kiss,  never  felt 
tempted  to  tell,  and  the  story  of  that  episode 
remained  closely  hidden,  and  would  so  remain, 
he  told  himself,  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

What  had  happened  had  been  briefly  this. 

One  day  in  the  previous  October,  Garden 
had  taken  his  seat  in  the  afternoon  express 
which  stops  at  Birmingham  on  its  way  from 
the  north  to  Euston,  or  rather,  having  taken  a 
leisurely  survey  of  the  train,  which  was,  as  he 
quickly  noted,  agreeably  empty,  he  had  indi- 
cated to  the  porter  carrying  his  bag  a  carriage 
in  which  sat,  alone,  a  singularly  pretty  woman. 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  59 

As  he  afterwards  had  the  delight  of  telling 
her,  and,  as  he  now  reminded  himself  with  a 
retrospective  thrill  of  feeling,  he  had  experi- 
enced, when  his  eyes  first  met  those  of  the  fair 
traveller,  that  incommunicable  sensation,  part 
physical,  part  mental,  which  your  genuine 
Lothario,  if  an  intelligent  man,  always  wel- 
comes with  quickening  pulse  as  a  foretaste  of 
the  special  zest  to  be  attached  to  a  coming  pur- 
suit. 

Garden's  instinct  as  to  such  delicate  matters 
had  seldom  played  him  false ;  never  less  so  than 
on  this  occasion,  for,  within  an  hour,  he  and  the 
lovely  stranger  had  reached  that  delightful 
stage  of  intimacy  in  which  a  man  and  woman 
each  feels  that  he  and  she,  while  still  having 
much  to  learn  about  the  other,  are  on  the  verge 
of  a  complete  understanding. 

During  the  three  hours'  journey,  Garden's 
travelling  companion  told  him  a  great  deal 
more  about  herself  than  he  had  chosen  to  reveal 
concerning  his  own  life  and  affairs;  he  learnt, 
for  instance,  that  she  was  the  young  wife  of  an 
old  man,  and  that  the  old  man  was  exceedingly 
jealous.  Further,  that  she  found  the  life  she 
was  compelled  to  lead  "  horribly  boring,"  and 
that  a  widowed  cousin,  who  lived  near  London, 
and  from  whom  she  had  "  expectations," 


60  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

formed  a  convenient  excuse  for  occasional  ab- 
sences from  home. 

Concerning  three  matters  of  fact,  however, 
she  completely  withheld  her  confidence,  both 
then,  in  those  first  delicious  hours  of  their  ac- 
quaintance, and  even  later,  when  their  friend- 
ship— well,  why  not  say  friendship,  for  Garden 
had  felt  a  very  strong  liking  as  well  as  an  over- 
mastering attraction  for  this  Undine-like  crea- 
ture?— had  become  much  closer. 

The  first  and  second  facts  which  she  kept 
closely  hidden,  for  reasons  which  should  per- 
haps have  been  obvious,  were  her  surname — 
she  confided  to  him  that  her  Christian  name 
was  Pansy — and  her  husband's  profession. 
The  third  fact  which  she  concealed  was  the 
name  of  the  town  where  she  lived,  and  from 
which  she  appeared  to  be  travelling  that  day. 

The  trifling  incidents  of  that  eventful  Octo- 
ber journey  had  become  to  a  great  extent 
blurred  in  Theodore  Garden's  memory,  but 
what  had  followed  was  still  extraordinarily 
vivid,  and  to-day,  on  this  holiday  morning, 
standing  idly  looking  out  of  the  window,  he  al- 
lowed his  mind  a  certain  retrospective  licence. 

From  whom,  so  he  now  asked  himself,  had 
first  come  the  suggestion  that  there  should  be 
no  parting  at  Euston  between  himself  and  the 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  61 

strange  elemental  woman  he  found  so  full  of 
unforced  fascination  and  disarming  charm? 

The  answer  soon  came  echoing  down  the 
corridors  of  remembrance:  from  himself,  of 
course.  But  even  now  the  memory  brought 
with  it  shame-faced  triumph  as  he  remembered 
her  quick  acquiescence,  as  free,  as  unashamed, 
as  joyous  as  that  of  a  spoilt  child  acclaiming 
an  unlooked-for  treat. 

And,  after  all,  what  harm  had  there  been  in 
the  whole  halcyon  adventure — what  injury  had 
it  caused  to  any  human  being? 

Garden  put  the  husband,  the  fatuous  old 
man,  who  had  had  the  incredible  folly  to 
marry  a  girl  thirty-five  years  younger  than 
himself,  out  of  court.  Pansy,  light-hearted, 
conscienceless  Pansy — he  always  thought  of 
her  with  a  touch  of  easy  tenderness — had  run 
no  risk  of  detection,  for,  as  he  had  early  discov- 
ered, she  knew  no  one  in  London  with  the 
solitary  exception  of  the  old  cousin  who  lived 
in  Upper  Norwood. 

As  for  his  own  business  acquaintances,  he 
might,  of  course,  have  been  seen  by  any  of 
them  taking  about  this  singularly  attractive 
woman,  for  the  two  went  constantly  to  the  the- 
atre, and  daily  to  one  or  other  of  the  great  res- 
taurants. But  what  then?  Excepting  that 


62  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

she  was  quieter  in  manner,  far  better  dressed, 
and  incomparably  prettier,  Pansy  might  have 
been  the  wife  or  sister  of  any  one  of  his  own 
large  circle  of  relations,  that  great  Garden  clan 
who  held  their  heads  so  high  in  the  business 
world  of  the  Midlands. 

Nay,  nay,  no  risk  had  been  run,  and  no  one 
had  been  a  penny  the  worse !  Indeed,  looking 
back,  Theodore  Garden  told  himself  that  it  had 
been  a  perfect,  a  flawless  episode ;  he  even  ad- 
mitted that  after  all  it  was  perhaps  as  well 
that  there  had  been  no  attempt  at  a  repeti- 
tion. 

And  yet?  And  yet  the  young  man,  espe- 
cially during  the  first  few  weeks  which  had 
followed  that  sequence  of  enchanting  days,  had 
often  felt  piqued,  even  a  little  surprised,  that 
the  heroine  of  his  amazing  adventure  had  not 
taken  advantage  of  his  earnest  entreaty  that 
she  would  give  him  the  chance  of  meeting  her 
again.  He  had  left  it  to  her  to  be  mysterious ; 
as  for  himself,  he  had  seen  no  reason  why  he 
should  conceal  from  her  either  his  name  or  his 
business  address. 

Many  men  would  not  have  been  so  frank, 
but  Theodore  Garden,  too  wise  in  feminine 
lore  to  claim  an  infallible  knowledge  of  women, 
never  remembered  having  made  a  mistake  as 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  63 

to  the  moral  social  standing  of  a  new  feminine 
acquaintance. 

During  the  few  days  they  had  been  together, 
everything  had  gone  to  prove  that  Pansy  was 
no  masquerader  from  that  under-world  whose 
denizens  always  filled  him  with  a  sensation  of 
mingled  aversion  and  pity.  He  could  not 
doubt — he  never  had  doubted — that  what  she 
had  chosen  to  tell  him  about  herself  and  her 
private  affairs  was  substantially  true.  No 
man,  having  heard  her  speak  of  it,  could  fail  to 
understand  her  instinctive  repulsion  from  the 
old  husband  to  whom  she  had  sold  herself  into 
bondage;  and  as  human,  if  not  perhaps  quite 
as  worthy  of  sympathy,  was  her  restless  long- 
ing for  freedom  to  lead  the  pleasant  life  led  by 
those  of  her  more  fortunate  contemporaries 
whose  doings  were  weekly  chronicled  in  the 
society  papers  which  seemed  to  form  her  only 
reading. 

Once  only  had  Garden  felt  for  his  entranc- 
ing companion  the  slightest  touch  of  repug- 
nance. He  had  taken  her  to  a  play  in  which 
a  child  played  an  important  part,  and  she  had 
suddenly  so  spoken  as  to  make  him  realise  with 
a  shock  of  surprise  that  she  was  the  mother  of 
children !  Yet  the  little  remark  made  by  her, 
"  I  wonder  how  my  little  girls  are  getting  on," 


64  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

had  been  very  natural  and  even  womanly. 
Then,  in  answer  to  a  muttered  word  or  two  on 
his  part,  she  had  explained  that  she  preferred 
not  to  have  news  of  her  children  when  she  was 
absent  from  home,  as  it  only  worried  her ;  even 
when  staying  with  the  old  cousin  at  Upper 
Norwood,  she  made  a  point  of  being  com- 
pletely free  of  all  possible  home  troubles. 

Hearing  this  gentle,  placid  explanation  of 
her  lack  of  maternal  anxiety,  Garden  had  put 
up  his  hand  to  his  face  to  hide  a  smile ;  he  had 
not  been  mistaken ;  Pansy  was  indeed  the  thor- 
ough-going little  hedonist  he  had  taken  her  to 
be.  Still,  it  was  difficult,  even  rather  disturb- 
ing, to  think  of  her  as  a  mother,  and  as  the 
mother  of  daughters. 

Yet  how  deep  an  impression  this  unmoral, 
apparently  soulless  woman  had  made  on  his 
mind  and  on  his  emotional  memory!  Even 
now,  when  he  had  no  desire,  and,  above  all, 
must  not  allow  himself  to  have  any  desire,  ever 
to  see  her  again,  Theodore  Garden  felt,  almost 
as  keenly  as  he  had  done  during  the  period  of 
their  brief  intimacy,  a  morbid  curiosity  to  know 
where  she  lived  and  had  her  being. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  Easter  Mon- 
day. 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  65 

Theodore  Garden  had  just  come  in  from  a 
long  walk,  and,  as  he  passed  through  the  circu- 
lar hall  around  which  Watermead  was  built,  he 
heard  the  low  sound  of  voices,  those  of  his 
father  and  some  other  man,  issuing  from  the 
square  drawing-room  always  occupied  by  the 
father  and  son  on  such  idle  days  as  these.  He 
stayed  his  steps,  realised  that  the  visitor  was 
Major  Lane,  and  then  made  up  his  mind  to  go 
up  and  change,  instead  of  going  straight  in  to 
his  father,  as  he  would  have  done  had  the  latter 
been  alone. 

As  he  came  down  again,  and  crossed  the  now 
lighted  hall,  he  met  the  parlourmaid,  an  elderly 
woman  who  had  been  in  Thomas  Garden's 
service  ever  since  his  wife's  death.  "  I  wonder 
if  I  can  take  in  the  lamps  now,  Mr.  Theodore? 
It's  getting  so  dark,  sir." 

There  was  a  troubled  sound  in  her  voice,  and 
the  young  man  stopped  and  looked  at  her  with 
some  surprise. 

"  Of  course  you  can,  Kate,"  he  said  quickly, 
"why  not?  Why  haven't  you  taken  them  in 
before?" 

"  I  did  go  in  with  them  half  an  hour  ago,  sir, 
but  the  master  told  me  to  take  them  out  again. 
There's  firelight,  to  be  sure,  and  it's  only 
Major  Lane  in  there,  but  he's  been  here  since 


66  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

three  o'clock,  and  master's  not  had  his  tea  yet. 
I  suppose  they  thought  they'd  wait  till  you 


came  in." 


"  Oh!  well,  if  my  father  prefers  to  sit  in  the 
dark,  and  to  put  off  tea  till  he  can  have  my 
company,  you  had  better  wait  till  I  ring,  and 
then  bring  in  the  lamps  and  the  tea  together." 

He  spoke  with  his  usual  light  good-nature, 
and  passed  on  into  the  room  which  was  the  only 
apartment  in  the  large  old  house  clearly  asso- 
ciated in  his  mind  with  the  graceful,  visionary 
figure  of  his  dead  mother. 

Thomas  Garden  and  the  Head  Constable 
were  sitting  in  the  twilight,  one  on  each  side 
of  the  fireplace,  and  when  the  young  man  came 
in,  they  both  stirred  perceptibly,  and  abruptly 
stopped  speaking. 

Theodore  came  forward  and  stood  on  the 
hearth-rug.  "  May  Kate  bring  in  the  lamps, 
father? " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  so." 

And  the  lamps  were  brought  in.  Then 
came  the  tea-tray,  placed  by  Kate  on  a  large 
table  many  paces  from  the  fire;  womanless 
Watermead  was  lacking  in  the  small  elegancies 
of  modern  life,  but  now  that  would  soon  be 
remedied,  so  the  younger  Garden  told  himself 
with  a  slight,  happy  smile. 


MR.  JARVICE'S   WIFE  67 

Very  deliberately,  and  asking  no  questions 
as  to  milk  or  sugar,  for  well  he  knew  the  tastes 
of  his  father  and  of  his  father's  friend,  he 
poured  out  two  cups  of  tea,  and  turning,  ad- 
vanced, a  cup  balanced  in  each  steady  hand. 

But  halfway  up  the  room  he  stopped  for  a 
moment,  arrested  by  the  sound  of  his  father's 
voice — 

"  Theo,  my  boy,  I  want  to  ask  you  some- 
thing." 

The  mode  of  address  had  become  of  late 
years  a  little  unusual,  and  there  was  a  note  in 
Thomas  Garden's  accents  which  struck  his  son 
as  significant — even  as  solemn. 

"Yes,  father?" 

"  Did  you  not  tell  me  this  morning  that  you 
had  never  met  Jarvice?  " 

The  one  onlooker,  hatchet-faced  Major 
Lane,  suddenly  leaned  a  little  forward. 

He  was  astonished  at  his  old  friend's  ex- 
traordinary and  uncalled-for  courage,  and  it 
was  with  an  effort,  with  the  feeling  that  he  was 
bracing  himself  to  see  something  terrible  take 
place,  that  he  looked  straight  at  the  tall,  fine- 
looking  man  who  had  now  advanced  into  the 
circle  of  light  thrown  by  the  massive  Argand 
lamps. 

But  Theodore  Garden  appeared  quite  un- 


68  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

moved,  nay  more,  quite  unconcerned,  by  his 
father's  question. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  did  tell  you  so.  I  sup- 
pose I  knew  the  old  fellow  by  sight,  but  I  cer- 
tainly was  never  introduced  to  him.  Are  there 
any  new  developments?" 

He  turned  to  Major  Lane  with  a  certain 
curiosity,  and  then  quite  composedly  handed 
him  the  cup  of  tea  he  held  in  his  right  hand. 

"  Well,  yes,"  answered  the  other  coldly, 
"  there  are  several  new  developments.  We 
arrested  Mrs.  Jarvice  this  morning." 

"That  seems  rather  a  strong  step  to  have 
taken,  unless  new  evidence  has  turned  up  since 
Saturday,"  said  Theodore  thoughtfully. 

"  Such  new  evidence  has  come  to  hand  since 
Saturday,"  observed  Major  Lane  drily. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  again  Thomas  Car- 
den  addressed  his  son  with  that  strange  touch 
of  solemnity,  and  again  Major  Lane,  with  an 
inward  wincing,  stared  fixedly  at  the  young 
man  now  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  a  stal- 
wart, debonair  figure,  between  himself  and  his 
old  friend. 

"  Can  you  assure  me — can  you  assure  us 
both — that  you  never  met  Mrs.  Jarvice?" 

Garden  looked  down  at  his  father  with  $ 
puzzled  expression. 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE          69 

"  Of  course  I  can't  assure  you  of  anything 
of  the  kind,"  he  said,  still  speaking  quite  plac- 
idly. "I  may  have  met  her  somewhere  or 
other,  but  I  can't  remember  having  done  so; 
and  I  think  I  should  have  remembered  it,  both 
because  the  name  is  an  uncommon  one,  and  be- 
cause"—he  turned  to  Major  Lane — "isn't 
she  said  to  be  an  extraordinarily  pretty 
woman? " 

As  the  last  words  were  being  uttered  an  odd 
thing  happened.  Thomas  Garden  suddenly 
dropped  the  cup  he  was  holding  in  his  hand; 
it  rang  against  the  brass  fender  and  broke  in 
several  pieces,  while  the  spoon  went  clattering 
into  the  fireplace. 

"Father!"  exclaimed  Theodore,  and  then 
quickly  he  added,  "  Don't  trouble  to  do  that," 
for  the  old  man  was  stooping  over  the  rug,  and 
fumbling  with  the  broken  pieces.  But  Thomas 
Garden  shook  his  head;  it  was  evident  that  he 
was,  for  the  moment,  physically  incapable  of 
speech. 

A  great  fear  came  into  the  son's  mind;  he 
turned  to  Major  Lane,  and  muttered  in  an 
urgent,  agonised  whisper,  "  Is  it — can  it  be  a 
seizure?  Hadn't  I  better  go  and  try  to  find 
Dr.  Curie?" 

But  the  other,  with  a  dubious  expression  on 


70  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

his  face,  shook  his  head.  "No,  no,"  he  said; 
"  it's  nothing  of  the  kind.  Your  father's  get- 
ting older,  Garden,  as  we  all  are,  and  I've  had 
to  speak  to  him  to-day  about  a  very  disagree- 
able matter." 

He  looked  fixedly,  probingly,  at  the  young 
man. 

"I  think  it's  thoroughly  upset  him."  The 
speaker  hesitated,  and  then  added :  "  I  dare- 
say he'll  tell  you  about  it;  in  any  case,  I'd  bet- 
ter go  now  and  come  back  later.  If  you  can 
spare  me  half  an  hour  this  evening,  I  should 
like  to  have  a  talk  with  you — about  the  same 
matter." 

During  the  last  few  moments  Major  Lane 
had  made  up  his  mind  to  take  a  certain  course, 
even  to  run  a  certain  risk,  and  that  not  for  the 
first  time  that  day,  for  he  had  already  set  his 
own  intimate  knowledge  of  Thomas  Garden, 
the  life-long  friend  whose  condition  now  wrung 
him  with  pity,  against  what  was,  perhaps,  his 
official  duty. 

Some  two  hours  before,  the  Head  Constable 
had  entered  the  house  where  he  had  been  so 
constantly  and  so  hospitably  entertained,  with 
the  firm  conviction  that  Theodore  Garden  had 
been  the  catspaw  of  a  clever,  unscrupulous 
woman;  in  fact  that  there  had  come  a  repeti- 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  71 

tion,  but  a  hundred  times  more  serious,  of  that 
now  half-forgotten  entanglement  which  had  so 
nearly  brought  Garden  to  grief  some  seven  or 
eight  years  before.  Once  more  he  had  come 
prepared  to  do  his  best  to  save  his  friend's  son, 
so  far  as  might  be  possible,  from  the  conse- 
quences of  his  folly. 

But  now?  Ah,  now,  the  experienced,  alert 
official  had  to  admit  to  himself  that  the  inci- 
dents of  the  last  ten  minutes  had  completely 
altered  his  view  of  the  matter.  He  realised 
that  in  any  case  Theodore  Garden  was  no  fool ; 
for  the  first  time  that  day  the  terrible  suspicion 
came  into  Major  Lane's  mind  that  the  man  be- 
fore him  might,  after  all,  be  more  closely  con- 
nected with  the  Jarvice  mystery  than  had 
seemed  possible. 

Never,  during  his  long  connection  with 
crime,  had  the  Head  Constable  come  across  as 
good  an  actor,  as  cool  a  liar,  as  he  now  believed 
this  man  of  business  to  be. 

Well,  he  would  give  Theodore  Garden  one 
more  chance  to  tell  the  truth;  Theodore  was 
devoted  to  his  father,  so  much  was  certainly 
true,  and  perhaps  his  father  would  be  able  to 
make  him  understand  the  gravity  of  the  case. 
Major  Lane  felt  bitterly  sorry  that  he  had 
come  first  to  the  old  man — but  then,  he  had  so 


72  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

completely  believed  in  the  "scrape"  theory; 
and  now  he  hardly  knew  what  to  believe ! 

For  the  moment,  at  any  rate,  so  the  Head 
Constable  told  himself,  the  mask  had  fallen; 
Theodore  Garden  could  not  conceal  his  relief 
at  the  other's  approaching  departure. 

"  Certainly,"  he  said  hastily,  "  come  in  this 
evening  by  all  means ;  I  won't  ask  you  to  stay 
to  dinner,  for  I  mean  to  try  and  make  father 
go  to  bed,  but  later  I  shall  be  quite  free.  If, 
however,  you  want  to  ask  me  anything  about 
the  Jarvice  affair,  I'm  afraid  I  can't  help  you 
much;  I've  not  even  read  the  case  with  any 
care." 

The  old  man,  still  sitting  by  the  fire,  had 
caught  a  few  of  the  muttered  words,  and  be- 
fore Major  Lane  could  leave  the  room  Thomas 
Garden  had  risen  from  his  chair,  his  face  paler, 
perhaps,  than  usual,  but  once  more  his  col- 
lected, dignified  self. 

"Stay,"  he  said  firmly;  "having  gone  so 
far,  I  think  we  should  now  thresh  the  matter 
out." 

He  walked  over  to  where  his  son  and  his 
friend  were  standing,  and  he  put  his  hand  on 
the  older  man's  arm. 

"  Perhaps  I  cannot  expect  you,  Lane,  to  be 
convinced,  as  I,  of  course,  have  been  convinced, 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  73 

by  my  son's  denials.  It  is,  as  I  told  you  this 
afternoon,  either  a  plot  on  the  part  of  someone 
who  bears  a  grudge  against  us,  or  else — what  I 
think  more  likely — there  are  two  men  in  this 
great  town  each  bearing  the  name  of  Theodore 
Garden.  But  I  appreciate,  I  deeply  appre- 
ciate, the  generous  kindness  which  made  you 
come  and  warn  us  of  this  impending  calamity ; 
but  you  need  not  fear  that  we  shall  fail  to  meet 
it  with  a  complete  answer." 

"Father!  Major  Lane!  What  does  this 
mean?" 

For  the  first  time  a  feeling  of  misgiving,  of 
sudden  fear,  swept  over  Theodore  Garden's 
mind.  Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  led 
the  way  back  to  the  fireplace,  and,  deliberately 
drawing  forward  a  chair,  motioned  to  Major 
Lane  to  sit  down  likewise. 

"  Now  then,"  he  said,  speaking  with  consid- 
erable authority  and  decision,  "  I  think  I  have 
a  right  to  ask  what  this  is  all  about !  In  what 
way  are  we,  my  father  and  myself,  concerned 
in  the  Jarvice  affair?  For  my  part,  Major 
Lane,  I  can  assure  you,  and  that,  if  you  wish  it, 
on  oath,  that  I  did  not  know  Mr.  Jarvice,  and, 
to  the  best  of  my  belief,  I  have  never  seen,  still 
less  spoken  to,  Mrs.  Jarvice " 

"  If  that  be  indeed  so,"  said  the  man  whom 


74  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

he  addressed,  and  who,  for  the  first  time,  was 
beginning  to  feel  himself  shaken  in  his  belief, 
nay,  in  his  absolute  knowledge,  that  the  young 
man  was  perjuring  himself,  "  can  you,  and  will 
you,  explain  these  letters?"  and  he  drew  out 
of  his  pocket  a  folded  sheet  of  foolscap. 

Garden  bent  forward  eagerly ;  there  was  no 
doubt,  so  the  Head  Constable  admitted  to  him- 
self, as  to  his  eagerness  to  be  brought  face  to 
face  with  the  accusation — and  yet,  at  that  mo- 
ment, a  strong  misgiving  came  over  Major 
Lane. 

Even  if  Theodore  Garden  could  continue  to 
be  the  consummate  actor  he  had  already 
proved  himself,  was  it  right,  was  it  humane,  to 
subject  him  to  this  terrible  test,  and  that,  too, 
before  his  old  father?  Whatever  the  young 
man's  past  relation  to  Mrs.  Jarvice,  nay,  what- 
ever his  connection  might  be  with  the  crime 
which  Major  Lane  now  knew  to  have  been 
committed,  Garden  was  certainly  ignorant  of 
the  existence  of  these  terrible,  these  damna- 
tory documents,  and  they  constituted  so  far 
the  only  proof  that  Garden  had  been  lying 
when  he  denied  any  knowledge  of  Mrs.  Jar- 
vice.  But  then,  alas !  they  constituted  an  irre- 
futable proof. 

With  a  sudden  movement  Major  Lane  with- 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  75 

drew  his  right  hand,  that  which  held  the  piece 
of  paper. 

"Stop  a  moment,  Theodore;  do  you  really 
wish  this  discussion  to  take  place  before  your 
father?  I  wonder  if  you  remember" — he 
paused,  and  then  went  on  firmly,  "  an  inter- 
view you  and  I  had  many  years  ago?  " 

For  the  first  time  the  younger  man's  whole 
manner  changed ;  a  look  of  fear,  of  guilt,  came 
over  his  strong,  intelligent  face. 

"  Father,"  he  said  imploringly,  "  I  beg  you 
not  to  listen  to  Major  Lane.  He  is  alluding 
to  a  matter  which  he  gave  me  his  word — his 
word  of  honour — should  never  be  mentioned  to 
anyone,  least  of  all  to  you;"  then,  turning 
with  an  angry  gesture  to  the  Head  Con- 
stable, "Was  that  not  so?"  he  asked  im- 
periously. 

"  Yes,  I  admit  that  by  asking  you  this  ques- 
tion I  have  broken  my  word,  but  good  God! 
man,  this  is  no  passing  scrape  that  we  have  to 
consider  now;  to-morrow  morning  all  Bir- 
mingham will  be  ringing  with  your  name — 
with  your  father's  name,  Theodore — for  by 
some  horrible  mischance  the  papers  have  got 
hold  of  the  letters  in  question.  I  did  my  best, 
but  I  found  I  was  powerless." 

He  turned  and  deliberately  looked  away,  as 


76  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

he  added  in  a  low,  hesitating  voice :  "  And 
now,  once  more  I  ask  you  whether  we  had  not 
better  delay  this  painful  discussion  until  you 
and  I  are  alone?" 

"  No ! "  cried  Garden,  now  thoroughly 
roused,  "certainly  not!  You  have  chosen  to 
come  and  tell  my  father  something  about  me, 
and  I  insist  that  you  tell  me  here,  and  at  once, 
what  it  is  of  which  I  am  accused." 

He  instinctively  looked  at  his  father  for 
support,  and  received  it  in  full  measure,  for  at 
once  the  old  man  spoke. 

"  Yes,  Lane,  I  think  my  son  is  right ;  there's 
no  use  in  making  any  more  mystery  about  the 
matter.  I'm  sure  that  the  letters  you  have 
brought  to  show  Theodore  will  puzzle  him  as 
much  as  they  have  me,  and  that  he  will  be  able 
to  assure  you  that  he  has  no  clue  either  to  their 
contents  or  to  their  writer." 

Very  slowly,  with  a  feeling  of  genuine  grief 
and  shame  for  the  man  who  seemed  incapable 
of  either  sorrow  or  shame,  Major  Lane  held 
out  the  folded  paper ;  and  then  in  very  pity  he 
looked  away  as  his  old  friend's  son  eagerly  un- 
rolled the  piece  of  foolscap,  placing  it  close  un- 
der the  lamp-shade  in  order  that  he  might  thor- 
oughly master  its  contents. 

As  Theodore  Garden  completed  the  trifling 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE          77 

action,  that  of  unrolling  the  piece  of  paper 
which  was  to  solve  the  mystery,  he  noted,  with 
a  curious  feeling  of  relief,  that  the  documents 
(or  were  they  letters?)  regarded  by  the  Head 
Constable  as  so  damnatory,  were  but  two,  the 
first  of  some  length,  the  second  consisting  of  a 
very  few  lines,  and  both  copied  in  the  fair 
round  hand  of  Major  Lane's  confidential 
clerk. 

And  then,  with  no  premonitory  warning, 
Garden  became  the  victim  of  a  curious  physical 
illusion. 

Staring  down  at  the  long  piece  of  blue  pa- 
per, he  found  that  he  was  only  able  to  master 
the  signature,  in  both  cases  the  same,  with 
which  each  letter  terminated.  Sometimes 
only  one  word,  one  name — that  of  Pansy — 
stood  out  clearly,  and  then  again  he  seemed 
only  to  see  the  other  word,  the  other  name — 
that  of  Jarvice.  The  two  names  appeared  to 
play  hide-and-seek  with  one  another,  to  leap 
out  alternately  and  smite  his  eyes,  pressing  and 
printing  themselves  upon  his  brain. 

At  last,  while  he  was  still  staring  silently, 
obstinately,  at  the  black  lines  dancing  before 
him,  he  heard  the  words,  and  they  seemed  to  be 
coming  from  a  long  way  off,  "  Theodore !  Oh, 
my  boy,  what  is  the  matter?  "  and  then  Major 


78  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Lane's  voice,  full  of  rather  angry  concern, 
"  Rouse  yourself,  Garden,  you  are  frightening 
your  father." 

"Am  I?"  he  said  dully;  "I  mustn't  do 
that;"  then,  handing  back  the  sheet  of  fool- 
scap to  the  Head  Constable,  he  said  hoarsely, 
"I  can't  make  them  out.  Will  you  read 
them  to  me? " 

And  Major  Lane,  in  passionless  accents, 
read  aloud  the  two  letters  which  he  already 
almost  knew  by  heart. 

6,  LIGHTWOOD  PLACE, 

January    28th. 

You  told  me  to  write  to  you  if  ever  I  was  in  real 
trouble  and  thought  you  could  help  me.  Oh!  Theo, 
darling,  I  am  in  great  trouble,  and  life,  especially  since 
that  happy  time — you  know  when  I  mean — is  more 
wretched  than  ever.  You  used  to  say  I  was  extraordi- 
narily pretty,  I  wonder  if  you  would  say  so  now,  for  I 
am  simply  ill — worn  out  with  worry.  He — you  know 
who — has  found  out  something;  such  a  little  insignifi- 
cant thing;  and  since  then  he  makes  my  life  unbearable 
with  his  stupid  jealousy.  It  isn't  as  if  he  knew  about 
you  and  me,  that  would  be  something  real  to  grumble 
at,  wouldn't  it,  darling?  Sometimes  I  feel  tempted  to 
tell  him  all  about  it.  How  he  would  stare!  He  is  in- 
capable of  understanding  anything  romantic.  However, 
I'm  in  no  mood  for  laughing  now.  He's  got  a  woman 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  79 

in  to  watch  me,  a  governess,  but  luckily  I've  quite  got 
her  to  be  on  my  side,  though  of  course  I  haven't  told 
her  anything  about  my  private  affairs. 

Will  you  meet  me  one  day  this  week,  to-morrow  if 
you  can,  at  No.  15,  Calthorpe  Street?  Four  o'clock  is 
the  safest  time  for  me.  Between  the  two  small  shops 
you  will  see  a  swing  door  with  "  Madame  Paula,  Milli- 
ner," on  it;  push  it  open  and  go  straight  upstairs.  On 
the  first  landing  you  will  see  a  door  with  "  Gone  out, 
enquire  upstairs,"  on  it.  Push  up  the  door  knob  (don't 
try  to  turn  it)  and  walk  in.  The  room  will  be  empty, 
but  you  will  see  a  door  leading  to  a  back  room;  push 
up  the  knob  and  there — there  you  will  find  your  poor 
little  Pansy,  fainting  with  joy  at  seeing  her  big  strong 
Theo  again. 

Send  me  a  postcard,  saying,  "  Mrs.  Jarvice  can  be 
fitted  on  (day  you  select)."  If  posted  before  eleven,  it 
will  reach  me  in  time.  Of  course,  I'm  running  a  risk 
in  meeting  you  here,  so  near  my  home,  but  I  must  see 
you,  for  I  have  a  great  favour  to  ask  you,  Theo,  and  I 
dare  not  propose  going  away  even  for  one  day. 

PANSY  JARVICE. 

Major  Lane  paused  a  moment,  then  went 
on:  - 

Theo,  I  wrote  to  you  ten  days  ago,  but  I  have  had 
no  answer.  I  am  dreadfully  worried;  I  know  you  are 
in  Birmingham,  for  I  saw  your  name  in  a  paper  before 
I  wrote  to  you.  I  have  gone  through  such  terrible  days 


80  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

waiting  for  the  postcard  I  asked  you  to  send  me.  Write, 
if  only  to  say  you  don't  want  to  hear  again  of  poor 
miserable  PANSY  JARVICE. 


"  I  suppose  you  will  now  admit  that  you 
know  who  wrote  these  letters?"  asked  Major 
Lane  sternly. 

"  Yes — at  least  I  suppose  they  were  written 
by  Mrs.  Jarvice." 

Theodore  Garden  spoke  with  a  touch  of  im- 
patience. The  question  seemed  to  him  to  be, 
on  the  part  of  his  father's  old  friend,  a  piece 
of  useless  cruelty. 

"  And  can  you  suggest  to  whom  they  were 
written,  if  not  to  yourself?  " 

"  No,  of  course  not;  I  do  not  doubt  that  they 
were  written  to  me,"  and  this  time  his  face  was 
ravaged  with  a  horror  and  despair  to  which  the 
other  two  men  had,  so  far,  no  clue.  "And 
yet,"  he  added,  a  touch  of  surprise  in  his  voice, 
"  I  never  saw  these  letters — they  never  reached 
me." 

"  But  of  course  you  received  others?  " 

Major  Lane  spoke  with  a  certain  eagerness; 
then,  as  the  young  man  seemed  to  hesitate,  he 
added  hastily:  "Nay,  nay — say  nothing  that 
might  incriminate  yourself." 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  81 

"  But  indeed — indeed  I  have  never  received 
a  letter  from  her — that  perhaps  is  why  I  did 
not  know  the  handwriting." 

"Theodore!"  cried  his  father  sharply, 
"think  what  you  are  saying!  What  you've 
been  shown  are  only  copies — surely  you  under- 
stood that?  What  Lane  has  just  shown  you 
are  copies  of  letters  which  purport  to  have  been 
addressed  to  you,  but  which  were  intercepted 
on  their  way  to  the  post — is  that  not  so?  "  and 
he  turned  to  the  Head  Constable. 

'Yes,"  said  Major  Lane;  then  he  added, 
very  deliberately. 

"  The  originals  of  these  two  letters,  which 
were  bought  for  a  large  sum  from  Mrs.  Jar- 
vice's  governess,  evidently  the  woman  referred 
to  in  the  first  letter,  are  now  in  the  hands  of 
the  news  editor  of  the  Birmingham  Dispatch. 
I  was  shown  them  as  a  great  favour  " — a  grim 
smile  distorted,  for  a  moment,  the  Head  Con- 
stable's narrow  jaw. 

"  I  did  my  best — for  your  father's  sake, 
Theodore — to  frighten  these  people  into  giv- 
ing them  up;  I  even  tried  to  persuade  them 
to  hold  them  over,  but  it  was  no  good.  I  was 
told  that  no  Birmingham  paper  had  ever  had 
such  a — *  scoop',  I  believe,  was  the  word  used. 


82  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

You  and  your  father  are  so  well  known  in  this 
city."  And  again  Theodore  Garden  mar- 
velled at  the  cruelty  of  the  man. 

Thomas  Garden  broke  in  with  a  touch  of 
impatience : 

"But  nothing  else  has  been  found,  my 
boy !  Lane  should  tell  you  that  the  whole  theory 
of  your  having  known  Mrs.  Jarvice  rests  on 
these  two  letters — which  never  reached  you." 

Father  and  son  seemed  suddenly  to  have 
changed  places.  The  old  man  spoke  in  a 
strong,  self-confident  tone,  but  the  other,  his 
grey  face  supported  on  his  hands,  was  staring 
fixedly  into  the  fire. 

"Yes,"  said  Major  Lane,  more  kindly,  "I 
ought  perhaps  to  tell  you  that  within  an  hour 
of  my  being  shown  these  letters  I  had  Mrs. 
Jarvice's  house  once  more  searched,  and  noth- 
ing was  found  connecting  you  with  the  woman, 
excepting,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  this ;  " — and  he 
held  out  an  envelope  on  which  was  written  in 
Theodore  Garden's  clear  handwriting  the 
young  man's  name  and  business  address. 

"  Now,  I  should  like  you  to  tell  me,  if  you 
don't  mind  doing  so,  where,  when,  and  how 
this  name  and  address  came  to  be  written?" 

"  Yes,  I  will  certainly  tell  you." 

The  young  man  spoke  collectedly;  he  was 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  83 

beginning  to  realise  the  practical  outcome  of 
the  conversation. 

"  I  wrote  that  address  about  the  middle  of 
last  October,  in  London,  at  Mansell's  Hotel 
in  Pall  Mall  East." 

"The  poor  fellow's  going  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it  at  last,"  so  thought  Major  Lane 
with  a  strange  feeling  of  relief,  for  on  the 
flap  of  the  envelope,  which  he  had  kept  care- 
fully turned  down,  was  stamped  "Mansell's 
Hotel." 

It  was  in  a  considerate,  almost  kindly  tone, 
that  the  Head  Constable  next  spoke. 

"  And  now,  I  beg  you,  for  your  own  sake, 
to  tell  me  the  truth.  Perhaps  I  ought  to  in- 
form you,  before  you  say  anything,  that,  ac- 
cording to  our  theory,  Mrs.  Jarvice  was  cer- 
tainly assisted  in  procuring  the  drug  with 
which  there  is  no  doubt  she  slowly  poisoned 
her  husband.  As  yet  we  have  no  clue  as  to 
the  person  who  helped  her,  but  we  have  ascer- 
tained that  for  the  last  two  months,  in  fact, 
from  about  the  date  of  the  first  letter  ad- 
dressed to  you,  a  man  did  purchase  minute 
quantities  of  this  drug  at  Birmingham,  at 
Wolverhampton,  and  at  Walsall.  Now,  mind 
you,  I  do  not  suspect,  I  never  have  suspected, 
you  of  having  any  hand  in  that,  but  I  fear 


84  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

you'll  have  to  face  the  ordeal  of  being  con- 
fronted with  the  various  chemists,  of  whom  two 
declare  most  positively  that  they  can  identify 
the  man  who  brought  them  the  prescription 
which  obtained  him  the  drug  in  question." 

While  Major  Lane  was  speaking,  Theodore 
Garden  had  to  a  certain  extent  regained  his 
self-possession ;  here,  at  least,  he  stood  on  firm 
ground. 

"  Of  course,  I  am  prepared  to  face  anything 
of  the  kind  that  may  be  necessary."  He  added 
almost  inaudibly:  "  I  have  brought  it  on  my- 
self." 

Then  he  turned,  his  whole  voice  altering  and 
softening:  "Father,  perhaps  you  would  not 
mind  my  asking  Major  Lane  to  go  into  the 
library  with  me?  I  should  prefer  to  see  him 
alone." 

II 

And  then  the  days  dragged  on,  a  week  of 
days,  each  containing  full  measure  of  bitter 
and  public  humiliation;  full  measure  also  of 
feverish  suspense,  for  Theodore  Garden  did 
not  find  it  quite  so  easy  as  he  had  thought  it 
would  be  to  clear  himself  of  this  serious,  and 
yet  preposterous  accusation  of  complicity  in 
murder. 


MR.   JARVICE'S    WIFE          85 

But  Major  Lane  was  surprised  at  the  cour- 
age and  composure  with  which  the  young  man 
faced  the  ordeal  of  confrontation  with  the  vari- 
ous men,  any  one  of  whom,  through  a  simple 
mistake  or  nervous  lapse  of  memory,  might 
compel  his  presence,  if  not  in  the  dock,  then 
as  a  witness  at  the  coming  murder  trial. 

At  last  the  awful  ordeal  was  over,  for,  as 
a  matter  of  fact,  none  of  those  brought  face 
to  face  with  him  in  the  sordid  promiscuity  of 
such  scenes,  singled  out  Theodore  Garden  as 
resembling  the  mysterious  individual  who  had 
almost  certainly  provided  Mrs.  Jarvice  with 
the  means  wherewith  to  poison  her  husband. 

But  it  was  after  the  need  for  active  defence 
had  passed  away  that  Theodore  Garden's  true 
sufferings  began.  .  .  .  The  moment  twi- 
light fell  he  was  haunted,  physically  and  men- 
tally possessed,  by  the  presence  of  the  woman 
he  had  known  at  once  so  little  and  so  well — 
that  is,  of  her  he  now  knew  to  be  Pansy  Jar- 
vice. 

Especially  terrible  were  the  solitary  even- 
ings of  those  days  when  his  father  was  away, 
performing  the  task  of  breaking  so  much  of 
the  truth  as  could  be  told  to  the  girl  to  whom 
his  son  had  been  engaged. 

As  each  afternoon  drew  in  Theodore  found 


80  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

himself  compelled  to  remain  more  or  less  con- 
cealed in  the  room  which  overlooked  the  gar- 
den of  Waterhead.  For,  with  the  approach  of 
night,  the  suburban  road  in  front  of  the  fine 
old  house  was  filled  by  an  ever  coming  and 
going  crowd  of  bat-like  men  and  women,  eager 
to  gaze  with  morbid  curiosity  at  the  dwelling 
of  the  man  who  had  undoubtedly  been,  if  not 
Mrs.  Jarvice's  accomplice — that,  to  the  an- 
noyance of  the  sensation-mongers,  seemed  de- 
cidedly open  to  question — then,  her  favoured 
lover. 

But  to  these  shameful  and  grotesque  hap- 
penings Theodore  Garden  gave  scarce  a 
thought,  for  it  was  when  he  found  himself 
alone  in  the  drawing-room  or  library  that  his 
solitude  would  become  stealthily  invaded  by 
an  invisible  and  impalpable  wraith. 

So  disorganised  had  become  his  nerves,  so 
pitiable  the  state  of  his  body  and  mind,  that 
constantly  he  seemed  conscious  of  a  faint,  sweet 
odour,  that  of  wood  violets,  a  scent  closely  as- 
sociated in  his  thoughts  with  Pansy  Jarvice, 
with  the  woman  whom  he  now  knew  to  be  a 
murderess. 

He  came  at  last  to  long  for  a  tangible  de- 
lusion, for  the  sight  of  a  bodily  shape  which 
he  could  tell  himself  was  certainly  not  there. 


MR.   JARVICE'S   WIFE          87 

But  no  such  relief  was  vouchsafed  him;  and 
yet  once,  when  sitting  in  the  drawing-room, 
trying  to  read  a  book,  he  had  felt  a  rounded 
cheek  laid  suddenly  to  his,  a  curl  of  silken, 
scented  hair  had  touched  his  neck.  .  .  . 

Terrifying  as  was  the  peopled  solitude  of 
his  evenings,  Garden  dreaded  their  close,  for 
at  night,  during  the  whole  of  each  long  night, 
the  woman  from  whom  he  now  felt  so  awful 
a  repulsion  held  him  prisoner. 

From  the  fleeting  doze  of  utter  exhaustion 
he  would  be  awakened  by  feeling  the  pressure 
of  Pansy's  soft,  slender  arms  about  his  neck; 
they  would  wind  themselves  round  his  shud- 
dering body,  enclosing  him  slowly,  inexorably, 
till  he  felt  as  if  he  must  surely  die  under  their 
gyves-like  pressure. 

Again — and  this,  perhaps,  was  what  he 
learnt  toxlread  in  an  especial  degree — he  would 
be  suddenly  roused  by  Pansy's  liquid,  laugh- 
ing voice,  whispering  things  of  horror  in  his 
ear;  it  was  then,  and  then  only,  that  he  found 
courage  to  speak,  courage  to  assure  her,  and 
so  assure  himself,  that  he  was  in  no  sense  her 
accomplice,  that  he  had  had  naught  to  do  with 
old  Jarvice's  death.  But  then  there  would 
come  answer,  in  the  eager  tones  he  remem- 
bered so  well,  and  the  awful  words  found  un- 


88  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

willing  echo  in  his  heart :    "  Yes,  yes,  indeed 
you  helped! " 

And  now  the  last  day,  or  rather  the  last 
night,  had  come,  for  the  next  morning  Theo- 
dore Garden  was  to  leave  Birmingham,  he 
hoped  for  ever,  for  New  Zealand. 

The  few  people  he  had  been  compelled  to 
see  had  been  strangely  kind ;  quiet  and  gentle, 
as  folk,  no  doubt,  feel  bound  to  be  when  in 
the  presence  of  one  condemned.  As  for  Major 
Lane,  he  was  stretching — no  one  knew  it  bet- 
ter than  Garden  himself — a  great  point  in  al- 
lowing the  young  man  to  leave  England  be- 
fore the  Jarvice  trial. 

During  those  last  days,  even  during  those 
last  hours,  Theodore  deliberately  prevented 
himself  from  allowing  his  mind  to  dwell  on 
his  father.  He  did  not  know  how  much  the 
old  man  had  been  told,  and  he  had  no  wish  to 
know.  A  wall  of  silence  had  arisen  between 
the  two  who  had  aways  been  so  much,  nay,  in 
a  sense,  everything,  to  one  another.  Each 
feared  to  give  way  to  any  emotion,  and  yet  the 
son  knew  only  too  well,  and  was  ashamed  of 
the  knowledge,  with  what  relief  he  would  part 
from  his  father. 

There  had  been  a  moment  when  Major  Lane 


MR.  JARVICE'S  WIFE  89 

had  intimated  his  belief  that  the  two  would 
go  away  and  make  a  new  life  together,  but 
Theodore  Garden  had  put  aside  the  idea  with 
rough  decision.  Perhaps  when  he  was  far 
away  on  the  other  side  of  the  world,  the  former 
relations  of  close  love  and  sympathy,  if  not 
of  confidence,  might  be  re-established  between 
his  father  and  himself,  but  this,  he  felt  sure, 
would  never  be  while  they  remained  face  to 
face. 

And  now  he  was  lying  wide  awake  in  the 
darkness,  in  the  pretty  peaceful  room  which 
had  once  been  his  nursery,  and  where  he  had 
spent  his  happy  holidays  as  a  schoolboy. 

His  brain  remained  abnormally  active,  but 
physically  he  was  oppressed  by  a  great  weari- 
ness; to-night,  for  the  first  time,  Garden  felt 
the  loathsome  wraith  that  haunted  him,  if  not 
less  near,  then  less  malicious,  less  watchful  than 
usual,  above  all  less  eager  to  assert  her  power. 
.  .  .  Yet,  even  so,  he  lay  very  still,  fearing 
to  move  lest  he  should  once  more  feel  about 
his  body  the  clinging,  enveloping  touch  he 
dreaded  with  so  great  a  dread. 

And  then,  quite  suddenly,  there  came  a 
strange  lightening  of  his  heart.  A  space  of 
time  seemed  to  have  sped  by,  and  Garden,  by 


90  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

some  mysterious  mental  process,  knew  that  he 
was  still  near  home,  and  not,  as  would  have 
been  natural,  in  New  Zealand.  Nay,  more,  he 
realised  that  the  unfamiliar  place  in  which  he 
now  found  himself  was  Winson  Green  Gaol,  a 
place  which,  as  a  child,  he  had  been  taught  to 
think  of  with  fear,  fear  mingled  with  a  certain 
sense  of  mystery  and  excitement. 

Theodore  had  not  thought  of  the  old  local 
prison  for  years,  but  now  he  knew  that  he  and 
his  father  were  together  there,  in  a  small  cell 
lighted  by  one  candle.  The  wall  of  silence, 
raised  on  both  sides  by  shame  and  pain,  had 
broken  down,  but,  alas!  too  late;  for,  again  in 
some  curious  inexplicable  way,  the  young  man 
was  aware  that  he  lay  under  sentence  of  death, 
and  that  he  was  to  be  hanged  early  in  the 
morning  of  which  the  dawn  was  only  just  now 
breaking. 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  this  knowledge  caused 
him,  personally,  but  little  uneasiness,  but  on 
his  father's  account  he  felt  infinitely  distressed, 
and  he  found  himself  bending  his  whole  mind 
to  comfort  and  sustain  the  old  man. 

Thus,  he  heard  a  voice,  which  he  knew  to 
be  his  own,  saying  in  an  argumentative  tone, 
"  I  assure  you,  father,  that  an  extraordinary 
amount  of  nonsense  is  talked  nowadays  con- 


MR.  JARVICE'S   WIFE          91 

cerning — well,  the  death  penalty.  Is  it  pos- 
sible that  you  do  not  realise  that  I  am  escap- 
ing a  much  worse  fate — that  of  having  to  live 
on?  I  wish,  dear  dad,  that  I  could  persuade 
you  of  the  truth  of  this." 

"  If  only,"  muttered  the  old  man  in  response, 
"if  only,  my  boy,  I  could  bear  it  for  you;" 
and  Garden  saw  that  his  father's  face  was 
seared  with  an  awful  look  of  terror  and  agony. 

"  But,  indeed,  father,  you  do  not  under- 
stand. Believe  me,  I  am  not  afraid — it  will 
not  be  so  bad  after  all.  So  do  not — pray, 
pray,  father,  do  not  be  so  distressed." 

And  then,  with  a  great  start,  Theodore  Car- 
den  awoke — awoke  to  see  the  small,  spare 
figure  of  that  same  dear  father,  clothed  in  the 
long,  old-fashioned  linen  nightshirt  of  another 
day,  standing  by  his  bedside. 

The  old  man  held  a  candle  in  his  hand,  and 
was  gazing  down  at  his  only  child  with  an  ex- 
pression of  unutterable  woe  and  grief. 

"  I  will  try — I  am  trying,  my  boy,  not  to 
be  unreasonably  distressed,"  he  said. 

Theodore  Garden  sat  up  in  bed. 

Since  this  awful  thing  had  come  on  him,  he 
had  never,  even  for  an  instant,  forgotten  self, 
but  now  he  saw  that  his  suff erings  were  small 
compared  with  those  he  had  brought  on  the 


92  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

man  into  whose  face  he  was  gazing  with  red- 
rimmed,  sunken  eyes. 

For  a  moment  the  wild  thought  came  to  him 
that  he  might  try  to  explain,  to  justify  him- 
self, to  prove  to  his  father  that  in  this  matter 
he  had  but  done  as  others  do,  and  that  the 
punishment  was  intolerably  heavier  than  the 
crime;  but  then,  looking  up  and  meeting 
Thomas  Garden's  perplexed,  questioning  eyes, 
he  felt  a  great  rush  of  shame  and  horror,  not 
only  of  himself,  but  of  all  those  who  look  at 
life  as  he  himself  had  always  looked  at  it;  for 
the  first  time,  he  understood  the  mysterious 
necessity,  as  well  as  the  beauty,  of  abnegation, 
of  renunciation. 

"  Father,"  he  said,  "  listen.  I  will  not  go 
away  alone;  I  was  mad  to  think  of  such  a 
thing.  We  will  go  together,  you  and  I, — Lane 
has  told  me  that  such  has  been  your  wish, — and 
then  perhaps  some  day  we  will  come  back  to- 
gether." 

After  this,  for  the  first  time  for  many  nights, 
Theodore  Garden  fell  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 


Ill 

A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE 

OLIVER  GERMAINE  walked  with  long,  even 
strides  from  the  Marble  Arch  to  Grosvenor 
Gate.  It  was  Sunday  morning,  early  in  July, 
and  the  comparatively  deserted  portion  of  the 
Park  which  he  had  chosen  was,  even  so,  full 
of  walkers.  A  good  many  people,  men  as  well 
as  women,  looked  at  him  pleasantly  as  he  went 
by,  for  the  young  man  was  an  attractive,  even 
an  arresting  personality  to  the  type  of  person 
who  takes  part  in  Church  Parade. 

Germaine  was  tall,  slim,  dark,  so  blessed  by 
fate  in  the  mere  matter  of  eyes,  nose  and 
mouth,  that  his  looks  were  often  commented 
on  when  his  wife's  beauty  was  mentioned. 

So  it  was  that,  as  he  walked  quickly  by,  a 
rather  vexed  expression  on  his  handsome  face, 
almost  every  man  who  saw  him  envied  him — if 
not  his  looks  then  his  clothes,  if  not  his  clothes 
then  his  air  of  being  young,  healthy,  and,  to 
use  an  ugly  modern  phrase,  in  perfect  con- 
dition. 

A  nursemaid  who  watched  him  pass  to  and 

95 


96  STUDIES   IN   WIVES 

fro  several  times  told  herself,  rather  wistfully, 
that  he  was  waiting  for  a  loved  one,  and  that 
the  lady,  as  is  the  way  with  loved  ones,  was 
late. 

The  nursemaid  was  right  in  one  sense,  wrong 
in  another.  Oliver  Germaine  was  waiting  for 
a  lady,  but  the  lady  was  his  married  sister. 
Her  name  was  Fanny  Burdon,  and  her  home 
was  in  Shropshire.  Germaine  had  a  loved  one, 
but  she  was  already  his  wife,  his  beautiful, 
clever  Bella,  with  whom  he  would  so  much 
rather  have  been  now,  sitting  in  their  pretty 
house  in  West  Chapel  Street  than  waiting  in 
the  Park  for  his  sister  Fanny. 

It  was  really  too  bad  of  Fanny  to  be  late! 
The  more  so.  that  she  would  certainly  feel  ag- 
grieved if,  when  she  did  come,  her  brother 
made  her  go  straight  home  with  him,  instead 
of  taking  her  down  into  the  crowd  of  people 
who  were  now  seething  round  the  Achilles 
statue.  But  if  Fanny  didn't  come  at  once, 
go  home  they  must,  for  Bella  wouldn't  like 
them  to  be  late — quite  a  number  of  people 
were  coming  to  lunch. 

Germaine  did  not  quite  know  whom,  among 
their  crowds  of  friends,  Bella  had  asked  to 
come  in  to-day.  But  certain  people,  four  or 
five  perhaps,  would  assuredly  be  there — Mrs. 


Slade,  Bella's  great  "  pal,"  a  nice  pretty  little 
woman,  with  big  appealing  eyes;  also  Jenny 
and  Paul  Arabin,  distant  relations  of  his  wife, 
and  once  the  young  couple's  only  link  with  the 
exclusive  world  of  which  they  now  formed  so 
intimate  a  part. 

Then  there  would  be  Uvedale. 

Germaine's  mind  dwelt  on  Uvedale.  Bob 
Uvedale  was  one  of  his  wife's  admirers — in 
fact  Uvedale  made  no  secret  of  his  infatuation 
for  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Germaine,  but  he  was 
a  good  fellow,  and  never  made  either  Bella 
or  himself  ridiculous. 

Oliver  Germaine  had  remained  very  simple 
at  heart.  He  felt  sure  that  Bella  could  take 
care  of  herself;  she  always  behaved  with  ex- 
traordinary prudence  and  sense, — in  fact 
Oliver  was  now  far  less  jealous  of  Bella  than 
he  had  been  in  the  old  days,  before  she  had 
blossomed  into  a  famous  beauty.  She  was  then 
rather  fond  of  flirting — but  her  husband  had 
proved  the  truth  of  the  comfortable  old  adage 
concerning  safety  in  numbers.  Bella  now  sim- 
ply had  no  time  for  flirtation!  There  was  no 
necessity  for  her  to  exert  herself,  she  had  only 
to  sit  still  and  be  admired  and  adored, — adored, 
that  is,  in  platonic  fashion,  admired  as  you 
admire  a  work  of  art. 


98  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Another  man  who  would  certainly  be  lunch- 
ing with  them  to-day  was  Peter  Joliffe. 

Joliffe  was  a  clever,  quaint  fellow,  whose 
mission  in  life  was  to  make  people  laugh  by 
saying  funny  things  in  a  serious  tone.  Joliffe 
was  always  fluttering  round  Bella.  He  had 
established  himself  as  a  tame  cat  about  the 
house,  and  he  had,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  been 
very  useful  to  the  young  couple,  piloting  Bella 
when  she  was  only  "  the  new  beauty  "  amid 
social  quicksands  and  shallows  of  which  she 
naturally  knew  nothing. 

Nay,  more,  Peter  Joliffe  had  introduced  the 
Germaines  to  some  of  the  very  nicest  people 
they  knew, — old-fashioned,  well-established 
people,  delightful  old  ladies  who  called  Bella 
"  My  pretty  dear,"  courtly  old  gentlemen  who 
paid  her  charmingly-turned  compliments. 
Yes,  it  was  nice  to  think  Joliffe  would  be  there 
to-day;  he  always  helped  to  make  a  party  go 
off  well. 

As  for  Oliver's  sister,  Fanny,  she  would 
have  to  sit  next  Henry  Buck.  For  a  brief 
moment  Germaine  considered  Henry  Buck, — 
Buck  who  was  always  called  "  Rabbit  "  behind 
his  back,  and  sometimes  to  his  face. 

Germaine  hardly  knew  how  it  was  that  they 
had  come  to  know  poor  old  Rabbit  so  well. 


A  VERY  MODERN   INSTANCE      99 

They  had  met  him  soon  after  they  were  mar- 
ried, and  ever  since  he  had  stuck  to  them  both 
with  almost  pathetic  insistence.  Oddly  enough, 
he,  Oliver,  did  not  reciprocate  Henry  Buck's 
feelings  of  admiring  friendship.  It  was  not 
that  he  disliked  the  man,  but  he  had  a  sort 
of  physical  antipathy  to  him. 

The  only  interesting  thing  about  Henry 
Buck  was  his  wealth.  But  then  to  many  peo- 
ple that  made  him  very  interesting,  for  he  was 
really  immensely  rich,  and  one  of  those  rather 
uncommon  people,  who  don't  know  how  to 
spend  their  money!  Poor  Rabbit  had  been 
educated  at  home  by  a  foolish,  widowed 
mother,  who  had  been  afraid  of  letting  him 
play  rough  games.  This  was  perhaps  why  he 
was  so  dull  and  awkward — not  quite  like  other 
people. 

Germaine  felt  rather  sorry  that  Henry 
Buck  would  certainly  be  there  to-day.  Con- 
sidering how  very  little  he  did  for  them — no, 
that  was  a  beastly  thing  to  say,  even  to  one- 
self 1 — but  considering  how  very  unornamental 
and  uninteresting  poor  old  Rabbit  was,  it  was 
really  very  nice  of  Bella  to  be  so  kind  to  him. 
She  never  seemed  to  mind  his  being  there,  and 
she  had  even  managed  to  force  his  company  on 
certain  people  whose  one  object  in  life  was  to 


100  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

avoid  a  bore,  and  who  didn't  care  a  button 
whether  a  man  was  a  pauper  or  a  millionaire. 

Of  course  Germaine  guessed  what  had  hap- 
pened to  Fanny.*  She  had  almost  certainly 
gone  to  hear  some  fashionable  preacher — for 
Fanny  was  the  sort  of  woman  who  likes  to 
cram  everything  into  a  visit  to  London.  She 
was  disappointed  if  every  waking  hour  did  not 
bring  with  it  some  new  sensation,  some  new 
amusement,  and  this  was  odd — or  so  her  sim- 
ple-hearted brother  told  himself — because  all 
the  rest  of  the  year  Fanny  was  content  to  lead 
the  dull,  stodgy  life  of  a  small  Shropshire 
squire's  wife. 

Oliver's  irritation  increased.  It  was  fool- 
ish of  Fanny  to  have  come  to  London  just 
now,  in  the  middle  of  the  season!  Hitherto, 
she  and  her  husband  had  always  come  up  for 
a  fortnight  just  before  Christmas,  and  then 
perhaps  again  just  before  Easter.  Now  she 
had  come  up  alone,  and  settled  herself  into 
dull  lodgings  in  Marylebone;  and  then — well, 
the  young  man  was  vaguely  aware  that  Fan- 
ny's visit  to  town  was  really  a  scouting  expe- 
dition. She  evidently  wanted  to  see  for  herself 
how  her  brother  Oliver  and  his  beautiful  wife 
were  "getting  on." 

Strange  to  say,  Fanny  was  not  quite  pleased 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     101 

at  Bella's  sudden  social  success — not  pleased, 
and  yet  quite  willing  to  profit  by  it.  How 
queer  that  was !  How  queer,  for  the  matter  of 
that,  most  women  werel  But  Bella  was  not 
queer — in  fact,  Bella  had  been  most  awfully 
nice  about  Fanny,  and  had  never  allowed  her 
to  suspect,  even  by  as  much  as  a  look,  that  her 
presence  was  not  welcome.  Yet  Fanny  nat- 
urally proved  "  odd  man  out  "  at  all  those  little 
gatherings  to  which  her  lovely  sister-in-law 
made  her  so  carelessly  welcome.  Fanny  knew 
nothing  of  the  delightful  world  in  which  Oliver 
and  Bella  now  moved ;  she  was  quite  convinced 
that  she  belonged  to  the  very  best,  exclusive 
set,  and  so  she  did — in  Shropshire.  But  here 
in  town?  Why,  she  was  even  ignorant  of  the 
new  social  shibboleths;  all  her  notions  as  to 
what  it  was  the  right  thing  to  do,  or  to  avoid 
doing,  belonged  to  the  year  before  last ! 

Take  to-day.  Fanny  would  certainly  feel 
cross  and  disappointed  that  Bella  was  not 
there,  in  the  Park,  too;  and,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  Germaine  had  tried  to  make  his  wife 
please  his  sister  in  the  little  matter  of  Church 
Parade — but  Bella  had  shaken  her  head  smil- 
ingly. 

"You  know  I  would  do  anything  for 
Fanny,"  she  had  said,  "but  really,  darling, 


102  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

you  mustn't  ask  me  to  do  that — to  go  into  that 
big,  horrid,  staring  crowd.  Why  should  I?  It 
makes  one  look  so  cheap  1  It  would  only  bore 
me,  and  I  don't  think  Fanny  would  really  en- 
joy having  me  there,"  and  Bella  had  smiled  a 
little  smile. 

Germaine  had  smiled  too, — he  really 
couldn't  help  it !  It  was  quite  true  that  Fanny 
would  not  enjoy  seeing  Bella  looked  at,  fol- 
lowed,— in  a  word,  triumphing,  in  the  way  she 
did  triumph  every  time  she  appeared  in  a  place 
where  she  was  likely  to  be  recognised. 

Of  course  it  was  odd,  when  one  came  to 
think  of  it,  that  Bella,  who  had  been  just  as 
pretty  two  years  ago  as  she  was  now,  should, 
for  some  mysterious  reason,  have  been  sud- 
deny  discovered,  by  those  whose  word  is  law 
in  such  matters,  to  be  astonishingly,  marvel- 
lously beautiful ! 

An  involuntary  smile  again  quivered  across 
Oliver  Germaine's  good-looking  face.  He  had 
but  little  sense  of  humour,  and  yet  even  he 
saw  something  almost  comic  about  it — the  way 
that  Bella,  his  darling,  pretty  little  Bella,  had 
suddenly  been  exalted — hoisted  up,  as  it  were, 
on  to  a  pinnacle.  She  was  now  what  the  Lon- 
doners of  a  hundred  years  ago  would  have 
called  "  the  reigning  toast  " — so  an  amusing 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     103 

old  fellow,  who  was  a  great  authority  on  his- 
tory, had  told  him  a  few  days  ago. 

Still,  he  ought  to  make  allowances  for  his 
sister  Fanny.  It  was  not  in  human  nature — 
or  so  Oliver  believed — for  any  woman,  even 
for  such  a  good  sort  as  Fanny  undoubtedly 
was,  to  be  really  pleased  at  another  woman's 
triumph. 

Small  wonder  that,  to  use  his  sister's  fa- 
vourite expression,  Fanny  could  not  make  it 
out!  It  was  unfortunate  that  Bella's  fame — 
that  fame  of  which  the  young  husband  was 
half  ashamed  and  half  proud — had  actually 
penetrated  to  the  dull  village  where  his  only 
sister  held  high  state  as  wife  of  the  lord  of  the 
manor. 

Since  Fanny  had  been  in  town  she  had  said 
little  things  to  him  about  Bella's  position  as 
reigning  beauty — not  altogether  kindly  or  nice 
little  things.  Even  yesterday  she  had  observed, 
with  a  touch  of  sharp  criticism  in  her  voice,  "  I 
wonder,  dear  old  boy,  why  you  allow  Bella's 
photograph  to  appear  in  all  those  low  pa- 
pers ! "  and  Oliver  had  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
not  knowing  what  to  answer,  but  comfortably 
sure,  in  a  brotherly  way,  that  Fanny  would 
have  been  quite  willing  to  see  her  own  fair 
features  reproduced  in  similar  fashion,  had  it 


104  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

occurred  to  any  of  the  editors  of  these  same 
enterprising  papers  to  ask  for  the  loan  of  her 
photograph. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  remembered, 
even  while  she  was  speaking,  a  monstrously 
ugly  photograph  of  Fanny, — Fanny  sur- 
rounded by  her  dogs  and  children, — which  had 
appeared  in  a  well-known  lady's  paper.  Why, 
she  had  actually  sent  the  paper  to  him, 
marked!  But  Oliver  magnanimously  re- 
frained from  reminding  her  of  this, — the  more 
so,  that  Fanny  had  hurried  on  from  the  trifling 
question  of  Bella's  portrait  to  the  more  serious 
and  unpleasant  one  of  her  brother's  moderate 
income. 

But,  as  Germaine  now  told  himself  compla- 
cently, he  had  been  very  short  with  her.  In 
fact  he  had  administered  a  good  brotherly 
snub  to  inquisitive  Fanny.  She  had  no  busi- 
ness to  ask  him  a  lot  of  questions  concerning 
the  way  he  and  Bella  chose  to  spend  their  in- 
come ;  it  was  no  business  of  hers  how  the  money 
was  spent.  Unfortunately  Fanny  did  con- 
sider it  her  business,  simply  owing  to  the  fact 
that  she  was  Oliver's  only  sister,  and  very  fond 
of  him, — that  went  without  saying, — and  that 
unluckily  her  husband  was  Oliver's  trustee. 
So  it  was  that  she  had  shown  extraordinary 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE    105 

curiosity  as  to  how  her  brother  and  his  wife 
managed  to  live  in  the  way  they  did,  on  the  in- 
come she  knew  they  had. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  had  said  gravely,  "  ex- 
actly what  your  income  is?"  Oliver  had 
nodded  impatiently.  Of  course  he  knew, 
roughly  speaking,  that  he  and  Bella  had  a  lit- 
tle over  two  thousand  a  year 

"  Two  thousand  and  sixty-one  pounds,  eigh- 
teen shillings,"  she  had  gone  on  impressively. 
"  At  least  that  was  what  it  was  last  year,  for  I 
asked  Dick."  Now  Dick  was  Fanny's  hus- 
band, and  a  most  excellent  fellow,  but  hope- 
lessly under  Fanny's  thumb. 

Oliver  Germaine  had  not  always  been  so 
well  off.  In  fact,  when  he  first  met  Bella — 
something  like  six  years  ago — he  had  been  a 
subaltern,  with  a  very  small  private  income,  in 
a  Line  regiment.  And  it  was  on  that  small  in- 
come that  the  loveliest  girl  in  Southsea — now 
the  most  beautiful  woman  in  London — had 
married  him.  Then  had  come  an  immense, 
unlooked-for  piece  of  good  fortune  I 

A  distant  Scotch  cousin,  a  crusty  old  chap, 
of  whom  all  the  Germaines  were  afraid,  and 
who  had  constantly  declared  it  to  be  his  inten- 
tion to  leave  his  money  outside  his  own  family, 
had  chosen  to  make  Oliver  his  heir,  and  had 


106  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

appointed  Fanny's  husband,  the  steady-going, 
rather  dull  Shropshire  squire,  as  trustee. 

Of  course  Oliver,  and  even  more  Bella,  knew 
now  that  the  fortune  which  had  seemed  then  to 
make  them  rich  beyond  their  wildest  dreams, 
was  not  so  very  much  after  all.  But  still,  at 
first,  it  had  been  plenty — plenty  for  everything 
they  could  reasonably  require. 

But  when  Bella  had  become  a  famous 
beauty,  they  had  of  course  to  spend  rather 
more,  and  about  a  year  ago  they  had  gone 
through  rather  a  disagreeable  moment.  The 
little  house  in  West  Chapel  Street  which  had 
seemed  so  cheap  had  proved  more  expensive 
than  they  had  expected.  However,  Dick,  as 
trustee,  had  stretched  a  point  in  his  brother-in- 
law's  favour,  and  the  slight  shrinkage  which 
had  resulted  in  the  Germaines'  income  mat- 
tered not  at  all  from  the  practical  point  of 
view,  for  the  simple  reason  that  they  went  on 
spending  as  much  as,  in  fact  rather  more  than, 
they  had  done  before — but  it  was  tiresome  hav- 
ing to  pay,  as  they  now  had  to  do,  an  insurance 
premium. 

Still,  it  was  too  bad  of  Fanny  to  have  spoken 
as  she  had  done,  for  Bella  was  wonderfully 
economical.  Take  one  simple  matter ;  all  their 
friends,  or  at  any  rate  the  majority  of  them, 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     107 

had  motors  as  a  matter  of  course,  but  Bella, 
when  she  was  not  driving,  as  she  generally  did, 
in  a  car  lent  her  by  some  kind  acquaintance, 
contented  herself  with  jobbing  an  old-fash- 
ioned brougham. 

This  restraint  was  the  more  commendable 
inasmuch  that  a  friend  had  lately  pointed  out 
to  her  a  way  in  which  one  could  run  a  motor 
brougham  in  town  on  almost  nothing  at  all. 
One  bought  a  second-hand  car  for  about  sev- 
enty-five pounds ;  it  was  kept  for  one  at  a  gar- 
age for  fifteen  shillings  a  week,  and  one  looked 
out  for  a  gentleman  chauffeur  who  loved 
motoring  for  its  own  sake,  and  who  had  some 
little  means  of  his  own.  With  care  the  whole 
thing  need  not  cost  more  than  a  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds  the  first  year,  and  less  the  second. 
They  could  not  afford  to  do  this  just  yet, 
though  Bella  was  convinced  it  would  be  true 
economy,  but  Oliver  hoped  to  start  something 
of  the  kind  the  following  winter. 

Of  course  Oliver  was  never  exactly  easy 
about  money.  Everything  always  cost  just  a 
little  more  than  he  expected.  It  sounded  ab- 
surd, and  he  would  not  have  said  so  to  anyone 
but  himself,  but  they  had  to  live  up  to  Bella's 
reputation — that  is,  they  had  to  go  everywhere, 
and  do  everything.  Yet  neither  of  them  lacked 


108  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

proper  pride.  They  differed  from  some  peo- 
ple they  knew — that  is,  they  did  not  (more 
than  they  could  help)  live  on  their  rich  friends. 
Their  only  real  extravagance  last  year  had 
been  sharing  a  house  during  Goodwood  week. 
That  had  let  them  in  for  a  great  deal  more 
than  they  had  expected — in  fact,  not  to  put  too 
fine  a  point  on  it,  they  had  been  rooked,  regu- 
larly rooked,  and  by  people  whom  they  had 
thought  their  intimate  friends! 

Germaine  sighed  impatiently.  This  little 
uneasiness  about  money  was  the  one  spot  on  a 
very  bright  sun.  But  he  had  no  wish  to  con- 
fide this  fact  to  Fanny  1  Fanny  would  be  cer- 
tain to  blame  Bella.  He  remembered  very 
well,  though  she  had  apparently  forgotten  it, 
the  way  Fanny  had  behaved  at  the  time  of  his 
marriage. 

The  fact  that  the  girl  he  wished  so  ardently 
to  make  his  wife  was  lovely  (no  one  could  have 
denied  that  even  then),  and  quite  sufficiently 
well  connected,  had  not  counterbalanced,  from 
the  prudent  sister's  point  of  view,  Bella  Ara- 
bin's  lack  of  fortune  and  her  having  been 
brought  up  in  such  a  "  mixed  "  place  (what- 
ever that  might  mean)  as  Southsea. 

But  Bella  had  never  borne  malice;  and  far 
from  being  spoilt  or  rendered  "  uppish  "  by 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     109 

her  sudden  intoxicating  success,  Bella  was,  if 
anything,  nicer  than  before.  She  and  Oliver 
were  still  devoted,  still  happier  together  than 
apart ;  their  quarrels,  so  far,  had  been  only  lov- 
ers' quarrels.  .  .  . 

Germaine  grew  restless — restless  and  tired. 
He  had  not  had  such  a  thinking  bout  for  a  long 
time.  Just  as  he  reached  Grosvenor  Gate  for 
the  fifth  or  sixth  time,  it  struck  a  quarter-past 
one.  In  a  sense  there  was  plenty  of  time,  for 
they  lunched  at  a  quarter  to  two ;  he  would  give 
Fanny  ten  more  minutes  and  then  go  off  home 
without  her. 

The  young  man  looked  round.  Every 
bench  was  full,  but  there  were  plenty  of  empty 
chairs.  He  dragged  one  of  them  forward,  and 
placed  it  with  its  back  to  a  large  tree.  From 
there  he  could  see  everyone  who  came  in  and 
out  of  the  gate,  and  so  he  and  Fanny  would 
not  lose  a  moment  looking  for  one  another. 
But,  though  many  went  out,  very  few  came  in ; 
the  Park  was  beginning  to  empty. 

Suddenly  two  middle-aged  women,  the  one 
very  stout,  the  other  very  thin,  walked  slowly 
through  the  gate,  They  struck  across  Ger- 
maine's  line  of  vision,  and  for  a  moment  his 
dark  eyes  rested  on  them  indifferently.  Then 
his  gaze  changed  into  something  like  attention, 


110  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

for  he  had  a  vague  impression  of  having  seen 
the  elder  of  these  two  women  before.  What 
was  more,  he  felt  certain  he  had  seen  her  in 
some  vaguely  unpleasant  connection. 

For  a  moment  he  believed  her  to  be  one  of 
the  cook-housekeepers  with  whom  he  and  Bella 
had  grappled  during  the  earlier  days  of  their 
married  life.  But  no,  this  short  stout  woman 
with  the  shrewd,  powerful  face  Germaine 
seemed  to  know,  did  not  look  like  a  servant. 
Even  he  could  see  that  her  black  clothes  were 
handsome  and  costly,  if  rather  too  warm  for  a 
fine  July  day.  Her  thin,  nervous-looking 
companion  was  also  dressed  with  some  preten- 
sion and  research,  but  she  lacked  the  other's 
look  of  stout  prosperity. 

They  were  typical  Londoners,  of  the  kind  to 
be  seen  on  the  route  of  every  Royal  procession, 
and  standing  among  the  crowd  outside  the 
church  door  at  every  fashionable  marriage- 
women  who,  if  they  had  lived  in  the  London  of 
the  Georges,  would  have  walked  a  good  many 
miles  to  see  a  fellow-creature  swing.  But  to 
Oliver  Germaine  they  were  simply  a  couple  of 
unattractive-looking  women,  one  of  whom  he 
thought  he  had  seen  before,  and  whose  proxim- 
ity was  faintly  disagreeable. 

Germaine's  mind  had  dwelt  on  them  longer 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     111 

than  it  would  otherwise  have  done  because, 
when  just  in  front  of  him,  they  stopped  short 
and  hesitated ;  then,  looking  round  them  much 
as  Germaine  himself  had  looked  round  a  few 
minutes  before,  and,  the  elder  woman  taking 
the  lead,  each  dragged  a  chair  forward,  and 
sat  down  a  yard  or  so  to  the  young  man's  right, 
the  trunk  of  the  tree  stretching  its  gnarled 
grey  girth  between. 

Seven  minutes  of  the  ten  Oliver  meant  to  al- 
low Fanny  had  now  gone  by,  and  he  felt  in- 
clined to  cut  the  other  three  minutes  short,  and 
go  straight  home.  After  all,  it  was  too  bad  of 
her  to  be  so  unpunctual  1 

And  then,  striking  on  his  ear,  shreds  of  the 
conversation  which  was  taking  place  between 
the  two  women  sitting  near  him  began  to  pene- 
trate Oliver  Germaine's  brain.  Names  fell  on 
his  ear — Christian  names,  surnames,  with 
which  he  was  familiar,  evoking  the  personali- 
ties of  men  and  women  with  whom  he  was  on 
terms  of  acquaintance,  in  some  cases  of  close 
friendship. 

Unconsciously  his  clasped  hands  tightened 
on  the  knob  of  his  stick,  and  he  caught  himself 
listening — listening  with  a  queer  mixture  of 
morbid  interest  and  growing  disgust. 

It  was  the  elder  woman  who  spoke  the  most, 


112  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

and  she  was  a  good  speaker,  with  that  trick, — 
self-taught,  instinctive, — of  making  the  people 
of  whom  she  was  speaking  leap  up  before  the 
listener.  Now  and  again  she  was  interrupted 
by  little  shrieks  of  astonishment  and  horror — 
her  companion's  way  of  paying  tribute  to  the 
interesting  nature  of  the  conversation. 

How  on  earth — so  Oliver  Germaine  asked 
himself  with  heating  cheek — had  the  woman 
obtained  her  peculiarly  intimate  knowledge  of 
those  of  whom  she  was  speaking?  The  peo- 
ple, these  men  and  women,  especially  women, 
whose  lives,  the  inner  cores  of  whose  existences, 
were  being  probed  and  ruthlessly  exposed,  al- 
most all  belonged  to  the  Germaines'  own  par- 
ticular set, — if  indeed  such  a  prosperous  and 
popular  couple  as  were  Oliver  and  Bella,  could 
be  said  to  have  a  particular  set  in  that  delight- 
ful world  into  which  they  had  only  compara- 
tively lately  effected  an  entrance,  and  of  which 
the  strands  all  intermingle  the  one  with  the 
other. 

Germaine  was  too  young,  he  had  been  too 
happy,  he  was  too  instinctively  kindly,  to  con- 
cern himself  with  other  people's  private  af- 
fairs, save  in  a  wholly  impersonal  fashion.  He 
had  always  avoided  the  hidden,  unspoken  side 
of  life;  when  certain  secrets  were  confided  to 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     113 

him  they  dropped  quickly  out  of  his  mind; 
ugly  gossip  passed  him  by. 

Yet  now  he  found  himself  listening  to  very 
ugly  gossip ;  some  feeling  outside  himself,  some 
instinct  which  for  the  moment  mastered  him, 
made  him  stay  on  there,  eavesdropping. 

For  the  moment  the  stream  of  venom  was 
directed  against  Mrs.  Slade,  the  pretty,  harm- 
less little  woman  whom  he  would  see  within  the 
next  hour  sitting  at  his  own  table.  She  was 
one  of  Bella's  special  friends,  and  Oliver  had 
got  quite  fond  of  her,  the  more  so  that  he  was 
well  aware  that  she  was  in  a  difficult  position, 
owing  to  the  fact,  not  of  her  seeking,  or  so  the 
Germaines  believed,  that  her  husband  spent 
most  of  his  life  away  from  her,  abroad. 

In  this  special  case,  Germaine  knew  some- 
thing of  the  hidden  wounds ;  it  was  horrible  to 
hear  this — this  old  devil  engaged  in  plucking 
the  scabs  from  these  same  wounds,  and  expos- 
ing to  her  vulgar  companion  the  shifts  to  which 
the  unfortunate  little  woman  was  put.  Nay, 
more,  she  said  certain  things  concerning  Mrs. 
Slade  which,  if  they  were  true,  or  even  only 
half  true,  made  the  poor  little  soul  under  dis- 
cussion no  fit  friend  or  companion  for  Ger- 
maine's  own  spotless  wife,  Bella.  .  .  . 

The  burden  of  the  old  woman's  talk  was 


114  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

money,  how  people  got  money,  how  they  spent 
money,  how  they  did  without  money.  That 
was  the  idea  running  through  all  her  conversa- 
tion, although  it  was,  of  course,  concerned  with 
many  uglier  things  than  money. 

Had  they  been  men  speaking  Germaine 
would  have  been  sufficiently  filled  with  right- 
eous indignation  to  have  found  words  with 
which  to  rebuke,  even  to  threaten  them,  but 
they  were  women,  common  women,  and  he  felt 
tongue-tied,  helpless. 

And  then,  suddenly,  there  leapt  into  the  con- 
versation his  own  name,  or  rather  that  of  his 
wife,  the  woman  of  whom  he  felt  so  exultantly, 
so  selflessly  proud.  The  allusion  came  in  the 
form  of  a  question,  a  question  SDoken  in  a  shrill 
and  odious  Cockney  accent. 

"I  should  like  to  see  that  Mrs.  Germaine. 
I  wonder  if  she  ever  comes  into  the  Park 

"  Not  she !  At  any  rate  not  on  Sunday. 
Why  she'd  be  mobbed  I "  snapped  out  the 
other. 

"  You  don't  say  so !  Do  people  run  after 
her  as  much  as  that? " 

"  There's  been  nothing  like  it  since  Mrs.  Jer- 
sey. I  used  to  see  people  get  up  on  chairs  to 
see  Mrs.  Jersey  go  by.  Not  that  I  ever 
thought  much  of  her  figure — great,  ugly, 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     115 

square  shoulders.  She  started  those  square 
shoulders,  and  they've  never  really  died  out." 

"Mrs.  Germaine's  quite  another  sort  of 
beauty,  the  pocket  Venus  style,  isn't  she?  I 
suppose  you've  had  a  lot  to  do  with  making  her 
the  rage,"  said  the  friend  admiringly. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that — her  kind  of  fig- 
ure dresses  itself.  She's  the  sort  that  gets 
there  anyhow.  She's  got  that  *  jennysayquoy  ' 
air,  as  the  French  put  it,  that  makes  folk  turn 
round  and  stare.  She  gets  her  looks  from  her 
mother;  I  remember  the  mother — her  name 
was  Arabin — when  I  was  with  Cerise.  They 
weren't  London  people — they  was  military. 
Mrs.  Arabin  had  such  pretty  coaxing  ways, 
same  as  the  daughter  has.  Cerise  used  to  let 
her  have  the  things  ever  so  much  cheaper  than 
she  charged  her  other  customers,  but  it  paid 
her  too." 

Germaine  breathed  a  little  more  easily.  He 
knew  now  who  this  woman  was.  She  was  a 
certain  Mrs.  Bliss,  Bella's  dressmaker,  in  her 
way  a  famous  old  lady,  whom  Bella's  set 
greatly  preferred  to  the  other  dressmakers  in 
vogue.  It  was  Mrs.  Bliss,  so  he  remembered 
having  heard,  who  had  introduced  some  years 
ago  the  picturesque  style  of  dressing  with 
which  his  sister  Fanny  found  such  fault,  and 


116  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

which    remains    loftily    indifferent    to    the 
fashion. 

Oliver  recollected  now  where  and  when  he 
had  seen  her ;  there  had  been  some  little  trouble 
about  an  item  in  his  wife's  bill,  and  Bella  had 
made  him  go  with  her  to  face  the  formidable 
Mrs.  Bliss  in  the  old-fashioned  house  in  Sack- 
ville  Street  where  the  dressmaker  wielded  her 
powerful  sceptre.  That  was  before  Bella  had 
become  a  fashionable  beauty,  and  Mrs.  Bliss 
had  been  rather  short  with  them  both,  unwill- 
ing to  admit  that  she  was  wrong,  although  the 
figures  proving  her  so  stared  her  in  the  face. 

And  then  Germaine  remembered  other  oc- 
casions with  which  Mrs.  Bliss's  name,  though 
not  her  personality,  were  associated.  He  had 
made  out  cheques  to  her,  larger  cheques  than 
Bella  could  manage  out  of  her  allowance.  But 
that  was  some  time  ago;  his  wife  must  now 
have  given  up  dealing  with  her;  and  he  felt 
glad,  very  glad,  that  this  was  so.  A  woman 
with  such  a  tongue  was  a  danger  to  society,— 
not  that  anyone  need  believe  a  word  she 
said.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  the  shrill  Cockney  voice  asked  yet 
another  question  concerning  the  beautiful  Mrs. 
Germaine.  It  was  couched  in  what  the 
speaker  would  probably  have  described  as  per- 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     117 

fectly  ladylike  and  delicate  language,  but  its 
purport  was  unmistakable,  and  Germaine 
made  a  restless  movement ;  then  he  became  al- 
most rigidly  still — a  man  cannot  turn  and 
strike  a  woman  on  the  mouth. 

"N-o-o,  I  don't  think  so."  Mrs.  Bliss 
spoke  guardedly.  "  She's  a  lot  of  gentle- 
men buzzing  around  her,  but  that's  only  to 
be  expected;  and  as  far  as  I  can  hear  there's 
not  one  that  buzzes  closer  than  another.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  Sophy,  I'm  puzzled  about 
those  Germaines.  It's  no  business  of  mine,  of 
course,  but  she  spends  three  times  as  much  as 
she  did  when  I  first  began  dressing  her  and 
she  don't  mind  now  what  she  does  pay, — very 
different  to  what  she  used  to  do!  It's  only 
the  best  that's  good  enough  for  my  lady 


now." 


"  Germaine's  an  army  chap,  isn't  he? " 
"  He  was — and  a  handsome  fellow  he  is, 
too.  He  came  into  a  good  bit  of  money  just 
after  they  got  married,  but  that  must  be  melt- 
ing pretty  quick.  Why,  she  goes  everywhere! 
Last  season  she  really  wore  her  clothes  out. 
They  " — she  waved  her  hand  comprehensively 
round  a  vague  area  comprising  Marylebone 
and  Mayfair — "scratched  and  fought  with 
each  other  in  order  to  get  her." 


118  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  don't  bother  about 
your  money." 

"  Yes,  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Bliss  shortly.  "  I'm 
not  that  kind;  I  don't  work  for  the  King  of 
Prussia,  as  my  French  tailor  used  to  say." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  in  a  rather  dif- 
ferent voice  Mrs.  Bliss  went  on,  "  I  do  get  my 
money  from  Mrs.  Germaine,  but  lately, — 
well,  I  won't  say  lately,  but  for  the  last  eight- 
een months  or  so,  she's  always  paid  me  in 
notes,,  two,  three,  sometimes  four  hundred 
pounds  at  a  time,  always  in  five-pound  notes." 

She  spoke  in  a  low  voice,  and  yet,  to  Oliver 
Germaine,  it  seemed  as  if  she  shouted  the 
words  aloud. 

The  young  man  got  up,  and,  careless  of  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  walked  away  without 
looking  around  towards  the  Marble  Arch;  so 
alone  could  he  be  sure  that  Mrs.  Bliss  would 
not  see  him,  and  perchance  leap  to  the  recol- 
lection of  who  he  was. 

The  words  the  woman  had  said  so  quietly 
seemed  to  be  reverberating  with  loud  insist- 
ence in  his  ear:  "She's  always  paid  me  in 
notes."  "Two,  three,  sometimes  four  hun- 
dred pounds." 

What  exactly  had  Mrs.  Bliss  meant  by  this 
statement?  What  significance  had  she  in- 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     119 

tended  it  to  carry?  There  had  been  a  touch 
of  regret  in  the  hard  voice,  a  hesitation  in  the 
way  she  had  conveyed  the  pregnant  confi- 
dence, which  made  Oliver  heartsick  to  remem- 
ber. 

But  after  a  time,  as  Oliver  Germaine 
walked  quickly  along,  uncaring  as  to  which 
way  he  was  going,  almost  running  in  his  desire 
to  outstrip  his  own  thoughts,  there  came  a  lit- 
tle lightening  of  his  bewildered  misery.  It 
was  possible,  just  possible,  that  Mrs.  Bliss  was 
really  thinking  of  some  other  customer. 

Notes?  The  idea  was  really  absurd  to  any- 
one who  knew  Bella,  as  he,  Oliver,  thank  God, 
knew  his  wife!  Why,  there  was  never  any 
loose  money  in  the  house,  both  he  and  Bella 
were  always  running  short  of  petty  cash. 

Then  the  young  man  remembered,  with  a 
sudden  tightening  of  the  heart,  that  this  had 
not  been  the  case  lately.  During  the  last  few 
months,  since  they  had  moved  into  their  new 
house,  Bella  had  always  had  money — plenty 
of  sixpences  and  shillings,  half  crowns  and 
half  sovereigns — at  his  disposal.  Nay  more, 
looking  back,  he  realised  that  his  wife  no 
longer  teased  him,  as  she  had  once  perpetually 
teased  him,  for  supplements,  large  or  small,  to 
her  allowance;  he  had  to  face  the  fact  that  of 


120  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

late  Bella's  allowance  had  borne  a  surprising 
resemblance  to  the  widow's  cruse ;  it  had  actu- 
ally sufficed  for  all  her  wants. 

But  he  had  been  unsuspecting,  utterly  un- 
suspecting, and  even  now  he  hardly  knew 
what  he  did  suspect. 

The  horrible  things  he  had  heard  Mrs.  Bliss 
say  about  other  people  acted  and  reacted  on 
Germaine's  imagination.  If  these  things 
were  true,  then  the  world  in  which  he  and 
Bella  lived  was  corrupt  and  rotten;  and,  as 
even  Oliver  Germaine  knew  by  personal  ex- 
perience, pitch  defiles.  If  Daphne  Slade  did 
the  things  Mrs.  Bliss  implied  she  did,  Bella 
must  know  it, — know  it  and  condone  it.  Bella 
was  far  too  clever  to  be  taken  in,  as  he,  Oliver, 
had  been  taken  in,  by  Mrs.  Slade's  pretty  pa- 
thetic manner,  and  appealing  eyes.  If  Mrs. 
Slade  took  money  from  men,  what  an  exam- 
ple, what  a  model Germaine's  mind  re- 
fused to  complete  the  thought. 

Certain  of  Oliver's  and  Bella's  old  acquaint- 
ances— people  whom  they  were  too  kind  to 
drop,  but  of  whom  they  couldn't  see  as  much 
now  as  they  had  once  done,  in  the  days  before 
Bella  became  a  famous  beauty — would  some- 
times hint  darkly  as  to  the  wickedness  of  some 
of  the  people  they  knew.  Even  Fanny  had 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     121 

told  him  bluntly  that  Bella  had  got  into  a 
very  fast  set.  "  Fast "  was  the  word  his  sis- 
ter had  used,  and  it  had  diverted  him. 

But  was  it  possible  that  these  people,  whom 
he  had  thought  envious  and  silly — and  that 
Fanny,  his  rather  narrow-minded  and  old- 
fashioned  sister, — had  been  right  after  all? 
Was  it  possible  that  like  so  many  husbands  of 
whom  he  had  heard,  for  whom  he  had  felt  con- 
tempt and  pity,  he  had — as  regarded  his 
own  cherished  wife — lived  in  a  fool's  para- 
dise? 

Germaine  now  remembered  several  things 
that  he  had  known — known  and  thought  for- 
gotten— for  they  had  been  completely  apart 
from  his  own  life.  He  recalled  the  case  of  a 
man  in  his  own  regiment  who  had  shot  himself 
three  days  after  his  wife's  death.  It  had  been 
publicly  given  out  that  the  poor  fellow  had 
been  mad — distraught  with  grief;  but  there 
had  been  many  to  mutter  that  the  truth  was 
far  other,  and  that  the  man  had  made  a  shame- 
ful discovery  among  his  dead  wife's  pa- 
pers. .  .  . 

Concerning  any  other  woman  than  Bella, 
Germaine  would  have  admitted,  perhaps  re- 
luctantly,— but  still,  if  asked  the  plain  ques- 
tion, he  would  have  admitted,  that  women  are 


122  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

damned  tricky  creatures,  and  that — well,  that 
you  never  can  tell! 

Again,  out  of  the  past,  there  came  back  to 
him,  with  horrid  vividness,  the  memory  of  a 
brief  episode  which  at  the  time  had  filled  him 
with  a  kind  of  pity,  even  sympathy. 

It  was  at  a  ball;  he  was  quite  a  youngster, 
in  fact  it  was  the  year  after  he  had  joined,  and 
a  woman  sitting  out  with  him  in  a  conserva- 
tory had  fallen  into  intimate  talk,  as  people  so 
often  do  amid  unfamiliar  surroundings. 
There  came  a  moment  when  she  said  to  him, 
with  burning,  unhappy  eyes,  "  People  think 
I'm  a  good  woman,  but  I'm  not."  And  she 
had  hurried  on  to  make  the  nature  of  her  sin- 
ning quite  clear;  she  had  not  passion  for  her 
excuse — only  lack  of  means  and  love  of  lux- 
ury. He  had  been  startled,  staggered  by  the 
unasked-for  confidence — and  yet  he  had  not 
thought  much  the  worse  of  her;  now,  retro- 
spectively, he  judged  her  with  terrible  se- 
verity. 

But  Bella?  The  thoughfof  Bella  in  such 
company  was  inconceivable;  and  yet,  deep  in 
Oliver  Germaine's  heart,  there  grew  from  the 
seed  sown  by  Mrs.  Bliss  a  upas  tree  which  for 
the  moment  overshadowed  everything.  He 
was  torn  with  anguished  jealousy,  which  made 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     123 

him  forget,  excepting  as  affording  a  proof  of 
what  he  feared,  the  sordid,  horrible  question 
of  the  money. 

Germaine  had  already  been  jealous  of 
Uella,  jealous  before  their  marriage,  and  jeal- 
ous since,  but  that  feeling  had  been  nothing, 
nothing  to  that  which  now  held  him  in  its 

grip- 
As  a  girl,  Bella  had  been  a  flirt,  and,  as  she 

had  since  confessed  more  than  once,  she  had 
loved  to  make  Oliver  miserable.  Then,  for 
some  time  after  their  marriage  he  had  been 
angered  at  the  way  she  had  welcomed  and 
courted  admiration.  But  he  had  never 
doubted  her,  never  for  a  moment  thought  that 
her  love  was  leaving  him,  still  less  that  her 
flirtations  held  any  really  sinister  intent.  He 
now  remembered  how  a  man,  a  fool  of  a  fel- 
low, had  once  brought  her  a  beautiful  jewel  by 
way  of  a  Christmas  gift;  but  it  had  annoyed 
her,  and,  without  saying  anything  about  it  to 
Oliver  at  the  time,  she  had  actually  made  the 
man  take  back  his  present! 

Was  it  conceivable  that  in  three  or  four 
short  years  Bella  could  have  entirely  altered 
— have  become  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  not 
only  another  woman,  but  a  woman  of  a  type, 
— as  even  he  was  well  aware,  a  very  common 


124  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

type, — he  would  not  have  cared  to  hear  men- 
tioned in  her  presence? 

Germaine  was  now  at  the  Marble  Arch. 
After  a  moment's  bewildered  hesitation,  he 
went  up  Oxford  Street,  and  then  took  a  turn- 
ing which  would  ultimately  lead  him  home; 
home  where  Bella  must  be  impatiently  await- 
ing him — home  where  their  intimates  had  al- 
ready doubtless  gathered  together  for  lunch. 

And  then,  during  his  walk  through  the  now 
deserted  and  sun-baked  streets  and  byways  of 
Mayfair,  Oliver  Germaine  passed  in  slow  re- 
view the  men  and  the  women  who  composed  his 
own  and  Bella's  intimate  circle.  They  rose 
in  blurred  outline  against  the  background  of 
his  memory,  and  gradually  the  women  fell 
out,  and  only  the  men  remained, — two  men, 
for  Henry  Buck  did  not  count. 

Which  of  these  two  men  who  came  about 
his  house  in  the  guise  of  close  friends,  had 
planned  to  steal,  to  buy,  the  wife  on  whose 
absolute  purity  and  honour  he  would  an  hour 
ago  have  staked  his  life? 

Germaine's  fevered  mind  leapt  on  Bob  Uve- 
dale.  What  were  Uvedale's  relations,  his 
real  relations,  with  Bella?  Oliver,  so  he  now 
told  himself  sorely,  was  not  quite  a  fool;  he 
had  known  men  who  hid  the  deepest,  tender- 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     125 

est — he  would  not  say  the  most  dishonourable 
— feelings,  towards  a  married  woman,  under 
the  skilful  pretence  of  frank  laughing  flirta- 
tion. 

Uvedale,  when  all  was  said  and  done,  was 
an  adventurer,  living  on  his  wits.  He  talked 
of  his  poverty,  talked  of  it  over-much,  but  he 
often  made  considerable  sums  of  money;  in 
fact  twice,  in  moments  of  unwonted  expan- 
siveness,  Uvedale  had  offered  to  put  Ger- 
maine  on  to  a  "  good  thing,"  to  share  with  him 
a  tip  which  had  been  given  him  by  one  of  his 
financial  friends.  Germaine  now  remem- 
bered, with  a  sick  feeling  of  anger,  how  seri- 
ously annoyed  Bella  had  been  to  find  that  her 
husband  had  refused  to  have  anything  to  do 
with  it;  nay  more,  how  she  had  taunted  him 
afterwards  when  the  "  good  thing "  had 
turned  out  good  after  all.  But  that  was  long 
ago,  when  they  had  first  known  Uvedale. 

They  now  knew  Uvedale  too  well — at  least 
Bella  did.  Oliver  was  an  outdoor  man;  he 
hated  crowds.  He  remembered  how  often 
Uvedale  took  his  place  as  Bella's  companion 
at  those  semi-public  gatherings,  charity  fetes, 
and  so  on,  which  apparently  amused  her,  and 
where  the  presence  of  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Ger- 
maine was  always  eagerly  desired. 


126  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Germaine's  mind  next  glanced  with  jealous 
anguished  suspicion  at  another  man  who  was 
constantly  with  Bella — Peter  Joliffe. 

There  was  a  great,  almost  a  ludicrous,  con- 
trast between  Uvedale  and  Joliffe.  Uvedale, 
so  Germaine  dimly  realised  even  now,  was  a 
man  with  a  wider,  more  generous,  outlook  on 
life  than  the  other,  capable  of  deeper  depths, 
of  higher  heights. 

Joliffe  was  well  off;  and,  as  the  Germaines 
had  been  told  very  early  in  their  acquaintance 
with  him,  he  had  the  reputation  of  being 
"near."  But  Bella  and  Oliver  had  both 
agreed  that  this  was  not  true.  Only  the  other 
day  Bella  had  spoken  very  warmly  of  Joliffe ; 
when  they  had  moved  into  their  new  house  he 
had  given  them  a  Sheraton  bureau,  a  very 
charming  and  certainly  by  no  means  a  cheap 
piece  of  old  furniture.  Oliver  had  supposed 
it  to  be  a  delicate  way  of  paying  back  some 
of  their  constant  hospitality,  for  Joliffe  was 
perpetually  with  Bella. 

Time  after  time  Germaine  had  come  in  and 
found  Joliffe  sitting  with  her; walking  through 
the  hall  he  had  heard  her  peals  of  laughter 
at  Joliffe's  witticisms,  the  funny  things  he 
said  with  his  serious  face. 

But  after  all  jesters  are  men  of  like  pas- 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE    127 

sions  to  their  melancholy  brethren;  they  can, 
and  do,  throw  off  the  grinning  mask.  Bella 
had  said,  only  yesterday,  "  There's  more  in 
Peter  than  you  think,  Oliver.  Believe  me, 
there  is !  "  Bella  always  called  Joliff e  Peter, 
— she  was  more  formal  with  Bob  Uvedale. 

Germaine  now  reminded  himself  that  Jo- 
liff e  did  not  like  Uvedale,  and  that  Uvedale 
did  not  like  Joliff  e.  There  seemed  a  deep, 
unspoken  antagonism  between  the  two  men, 
who  were  yet  so  constantly  meeting.  Joliffe 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  say  something — not  ex- 
actly disagreeable,  but  condemnatory — of 
Uvedale's  city  connections,  to  Germaine.  Jo- 
liffe was  annoyed,  distinctly  annoyed  at  the 
way  Bella  went  about  with  Uvedale,  and  by 
the  fact  that  she  often  introduced  him  to 
people  whose  acquaintance  she  had  herself 
made  through  Joliffe. 

What  had  he,  Oliver  Germaine,  been  about, 
to  allow  his  wife  to  become  so  intimate  with 
two  men,  of  whom  he  knew  nothing?  Yester- 
day he  would  have  said  Uvedale  and  Joliffe 
were  his  closest  pals.  But  what  did  he  really 
know  of  either  of  them — of  their  secret 
thoughts — their  deep  desires  and  ambitions — 
their  shames  and  secret  sins?  Nothing — noth- 
ing. Bella's  husband  knew  as  little  of  Uve- 


128  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

dale  and  Joliffe — in  fact,  till  to-day,  far  less 
than  they  knew  of  him,  for  one  or  the  other 
of  these  men  was  his  enemy,  and  had  be- 
trayed, very  basely,  his  hospitality. 

Germaine  had  now  lashed  himself  into  the 
certainty  that  he  was  that  most  miserable  and 
pitiable  of  civilised  beings,  the  trusting, 
kindly,  nay  more,  adoring  husband,  whose 
wife  betrays  him  with  his  friend. 

When  others  had  laughed,  as  men  have 
laughed,  and  will  ever  laugh,  at  similar  ironic 
juxtapositions  of  fate,  Germaine  had  re- 
mained grave,  for  he  had  a  sensitive  heart— 
a  heart  which  made  him  realise  something  of 
what  lay  beneath  such  tales.  Now  he  told 
himself  that  so  no  doubt  he  himself  was  be- 
ing laughed  at  by  the  many,  pitied — the 
thought  stung  deeper — by  the  few. 

As  he  at  last  turned  into  Curzon  Street, 
and  so  was  within  a  few  yards  of  his  house,  it 
struck  two  o'clock.  By  now  they  must  all  be 
waiting  for  him,  and  Bella  would  be  angry, 
as  angry  as  she  ever  allowed  her  sweet-tem- 
pered nature  to  be.  But  Germaine  told  him- 
self savagely  that  he  didn't  care, — he  was 
sorry  to  be  so  near  home,  to  know  that  in  a 
few  moments  he  would  have  to  command  him- 
self, to  pretend  light-hearted  indifference  be- 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE    129 

fore  a  crowd  of  people  most  of  whom  he  now 
feared — ay,  feared  and  hated,  for  they  must 
all  have  long  suspected  what  he  only  now 
knew  to  be  the  truth. 

Some  one  touched  him.  He  started  vio- 
lently. It  was  his  sister,  Fanny,  pouring  out 
a  confused  stream  of  apologies  and  explana- 
tions. He  stared  at  her  in  silence,  and  she 
thought  he  was  so  seriously  annoyed,  so  "  put 
out "  that  he  could  not  trust  himself  to  speak. 

But  though,  as  they  stood  there  face  to  face, 
he  dimly  realised  what  his  sister  was  trying 
to  say,  how  she  was  trying  to  explain  her 
failure  to  keep  her  appointment  with  him  in 
the  Park,  Germaine  could  not  have  told,  had 
his  life  depended  on  it,  the  nature  of  her  ex- 
cuse. 

Together  they  walked  side  by  side  to  the 
door  of  his  house,  and,  as  he  rang  the  bell,  as 
he  knocked,  he  remembered  with  a  pang  of 
jealous  anguish  that  Bella  had  asked  him, 
when  they  moved  into  this  house,  not  to  use 
a  latch-key  in  the  daytime;  she  had  explained 
to  him  that  to  do  so  prevented  the  servants 
keeping  up  to  the  mark,  and  he  had  obeyed 
her,  as  he  always  did  obey  her.  This  trifle 
made  his  anger,  for  the  moment  his  impotent 
anger,  become  colder,  clarified. 


130  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

It  was  only  an  hour  later,  but  at  last  they 
were  all  gone,  these  people  whom  Oliver  Ger- 
maine  had  now  begun  to  hate  and  suspect, 
each  in  their  different  measure,  women  and 
men.  Everyone  had  left,  that  is,  excepting 
Henry  Buck  and  Fanny;  and  Fanny  was 
just  going  away,  Oliver  seeing  her  off  at  the 
front  door. 

Germaine  believed  that  he  had  carried  him- 
self well.  True,  Uvedale  had  said  to  him, 
"  Feeling  a  bit  chippy,  old  chap?  "  and  twice 
he  had  noticed  Joliffe's  rather  cold  grey  eyes 
fixed  attentively  on  his  face,  but  under  the 
chatter  of  the  women — Jenny  Arabin  was  a 
great  talker  and  in  a  harmless  sort  of  way  a 
great  gossip,  always  knowing  everybody's 
business  better  than  they  did  themselves — un- 
der cover  of  the  women's  chatter,  he  had  been 
able  to  remain  silent,  and,  whatever  the  two 
men  present  had  suspected, — one  of  the  two 
forced  thereto  by  his  own  conscience, — Bella 
had  certainly  noticed  nothing.  She  had  not 
even  seen,  as  his  sister  had  seen,  that  Oliver 
looked  tired  and  unlike  himself. 

Why,  just  now  Fanny  had  spoken  to  him 
solicitously  about  his  health — blundering, 
tactless,  Fanny  had  actually  asked  him  if 
anything  special  were  worrying  him  I 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     131 

He  shut  the  door  on  his  sister,  and  crossed 
the  little  hall.  The  time  had  now  come  when 
he  must  have  it  out  with  Bella. 

Then,  suddenly,  there  came  over  Germaine 
a  feeling  as  if  he  had  been  living  through  a 
hideous  nightmare.  If  that  were  indeed  so, 
then  his  whole  life  would  not  be  too  long  to 
secretly  atone  to  Bella  for  his  horrible  sus- 
picion. 

It  seemed  suddenly  monstrous  that  he 
should  suspect  Bella  on  the  word  of  a  Mrs. 
Bliss.  His  wife  had  a  right,  after  all,  to  pay 
her  dressmaker  in  bank-notes  if  the  fancy 
seized  her.  Sometimes  when  Bella  did  some- 
thing that  he,  Oliver,  did  not  like  or  approve, 
she  explained  that  her  mother  had  done  the 
same  thing,  and  the  excuse  always  irritated 
him,  left  him  without  an  answer. 

Supposing  that  Bella  were  now  to  tell  him 
that  the  late  Mrs.  Arabin,  whose  reputation 
for  a  certain  daring  liveliness  and  exceeding 
beauty  still  lingered  in  the  ever-shifting  naval 
and  military  society  where  he  had  first  met 
his  wife,  always  paid  her  bills  in  notes  and 
cash  rather  than  by  cheque — what  then? 

He  walked  up  the  staircase;  Henry  Buck 
passed  him  coming  down.  Germaine's  eyes 
rested  on  the  awkward  figure,  the  plain,  good- 


132  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

natured  face.  Rabbit  was  certainly  lacking 
in  tact;  he  always  outstayed  all  their  other 
guests,  and  he  never  knew  when  Bella  was 
tired,  but  still  he  was  the  one  human  being 
present  at  the  little  lunch  party  at  whom 
Oliver  had  been  able  to  look  without  a  feeling 
of  unease. 

Slowly  he  turned  the  painted  china  knob 
of  the  drawing-room  door. 

Bella  was  standing  before  the  Sheraton 
bureau  which  had  been  the  gift  of  Peter  Jo- 
liffe.  She  had  apparently  been  putting  some- 
thing away;  Germaine  heard  the  click  of  the 
lock.  She  turned  round  quickly,  and  her  hus- 
band thought  there  was  a  look  of  constraint 
on  her  face. 

"  Why,  Oliver,"  she  said,  "  I  thought  you 
were  going  out  with  Fanny  this  afternoon! " 

"With  Fanny?"  he  stammered,  "I  never 
thought  of  doing  such  a  thing." 

"  But  you're  not  going  to  stay  in,  are  you?  " 

He  looked  at  her  attentively,  and  again 
there  surged  up  in  his  heart  wild  jealousy 
and  suspicion.  Why  did  she  ask  whether  he 
was  going  to  stay  in?  Which  of  the  two  men 
who  had  just  left  the  house  was  she  expect- 
ing to  come  back  as  soon  as  he,  poor  deluded 
fool,  was  safely  out  of  the  way? 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     133 

But  Bella  went  on  speaking  rather  quickly : 
"  I  shan't  go  out.  I'm  tired.  Besides,  I'm 
expecting  some  people  to  tea.  So  perhaps  I'd 
better  go  and  take  my  hat  off.  I  shall  only 
be  a  few  minutes;  do  wait  till  I  come  back." 
Bella  spoke  rather  breathlessly,  moving  across 
the  room  towards  the  door. 

Then  she  didn't  want  him  to  go  out?  He 
had  wronged  her  in  this,  at  any  rate.  Ger- 
maine  stared  at  the  door  through  which  his 
wife  had  just  gone  with  a  feeling  of  miserable 
uncertainty. 

Then  his  eye  travelled  round  to  the  place 
where  she  had  been  standing  just  now,  in 
front  of  JolifFe's  bureau.  A  glance  at  Bella's 
bank-book  would  set  his  mind  at  rest  one  way 
or  the  other.  It  would  go  far  to  prove  or 
disprove  the  story  Mrs.  Bliss  had  told,  for  it 
would  show  if  Bella  were  indeed  in  the  habit 
of  drawing  considerable  cheques  to  "  self." 
Why  hadn't  he  thought  of  this  simple  test 
before, — before  shaming  himself  and  shaming 
his  wife  by  base  suspicions? 

And  yet  Oliver,  for  some  few  moments, 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  irresolute. 
Yesterday  it  would  never  have  occurred  to 
him  that  Bella  would  mind  his  looking  at  her 
bank-book,  although,  as  a  matter  of  fact  he 


134  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

never  had  looked  at  it.  She  was  a  tidy  little 
woman;  he  knew  that  everything  under  the 
flap  which  he  had  seen  her  close  down  <so 
quickly  just  now  would  be  exquisitely  neat; 
he  knew  the  exact  spot  where  her  bank-book 
was  to  be  found. 

With  a  curious  feeling  that  he  was  doing 
something  dishonourable, — and  it  was  a  feel- 
ing which  sat  very  uneasily  on  Oliver  Ger- 
maine, — he  took  hold  of  the  little  brass 
knob  and  slid  up  the  flap  of  the  sloping 
desk. 

The  bank-book  closed  the  ranks  of  the  red 
household  books  over  which  in  old  days,  when 
they  were  first  married,  before  he  had  come 
into  his  fortune,  he  had  actually  seen  Bella 
shed  tears. 

With  fingers  that  felt  numb  he  took  up  the 
little  vellum-bound  book  and  opened  it  at  the 
page  containing  the  latest  items. 

There,  on  the  credit  side,  was  the  sum  of 
money  which  had  been  paid  in,  to  his  bankers' 
order,  on  the  last  quarter  day.  On  the  debit 
side  were  a  few  cheques  made  out  to  trades- 
people. There  was  not  a  single  cheque  made 
out  to  "self"  on  the  page  at  which  he  was 
looking;  but — but  of  course  it  was  possible 
that  Bella,  like  so  many  women,  added  a  few 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     135 

pounds  for  change  every  time  she  settled  a 
tradesman's  account. 

He  turned  several  leaves  of  the  little  book 

backwards Here  was  a  page  which  bore 

the  date  of  three  years  ago;  and  here,  as  he 
had  feared  to  find,  there  were  constant,  small 
entries  to  "  self."  .  .  . 

By  the  empty  place  on  the  shelf  where  the 
bank-book  had  stood  was  a  gilt  file  for  bills, 
a  pretty  little  toy  which  had  been  given  her, 
so  the  husband  now  remembered,  by  Uvedale. 
The  letters  composing  the  word  "  paid  "  were 
twisted  round  the  handle — horrible  symbolic 
word! 

He  took  up  the  file  and  ran  his  fingers 
through  the  receipted  bills. 

Ah!  here  at  last,  was  one  which  bore  the 
name  of  Mrs.  Bliss. 

The  amount  of  the  bill  amazed  him, — eight 
hundred  and  seventy-one  pounds,  sixteen 
shillings, — and  Bella  had  paid  four  hundred 
pounds  on  account  about  a  fortnight  before. 
It  was  the  only  bill  on  the  file  on  which  there 
still  remained  a  balance  owing.  Germaine 
did  not  need  to  look  again  at  his  wife's  bank- 
book to  see  that  the  majority  of  the  receipted 
bills  had  not  been  paid  by  cheque. 

These  bills,  so  he  now  became  aware  with  a 


136  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

frightful  contraction  of  the  heart,  were  for  all 
sorts  of  things — expensive  trifles,  costly  hot- 
house flowers,  extravagantly  expensive  fruit 
— which  he  had  enjoyed,  and  of  which  he  had 
partaken,  believing,  if  he  thought  of  the  mat- 
ter at  all — fool  that  he  had  been — that  they 
were  being  paid  for  out  of  his  modest  income, 
the  income  which  had  once  seemed  so  limitless. 

"What  are  you  doing,  Oliver?  You've  no 
business  to  look  at  my  things.  I  never  look 
at  yours."  He  had  not  heard  the  door  open, 
and  Bella  had  crept  up  swiftly  behind  him; 
there  was  some  anger,  but  there  was  far  more 
fear,  in  her  soft  voice. 

Germaine  turned  round  and  looked  at  his 
wife. 

Bella  had  changed  her  dress,  and  she  was 
now  wearing  a  painted  muslin  gown,  her  slen- 
der waist  girdled  with  a  blue  ribbon.  She 
looked  exquisitely  lovely,  and  so  young, — a 
girl,  a  young  and  innocent  girl. 

There  fell  a  heavy  hand  on  her  rounded 
shoulder. 

"  Oliver!"  she  cried,  "you're  hurting  me!" 

He  withdrew  his  hand — quickly. 

"  Bella,"  he  said,  "  I  only  want  to  ask  you 
one  question — I  know  everything," — and  in 


A  VERY  MODERN   INSTANCE     137 

answer  to  a  strange  look  that  came  over  her 
face  he  added  hurriedly,  "  Never  mind  how  I 
found  out.  I  have  found  out,  and  now  I  only 
want  to  ask  you  one  thing — I — I  have  a  right 
to  know  who  it  is." 

"  Who  it  is?  "  she  repeated.  "  I  don't  un- 
derstand what  you  mean,  Oliver?  Who — 
what?"  but  as  Bella  Germaine  asked  the  use- 
less question  she  shrank  back;  for  the  first 
time  in  their  joint  lives  she  felt  afraid  of 
Oliver, — afraid,  and  intensely  sorry  for  him. 

A  sob  rose  to  her  throat.  What  a  shame 
it  was!  How  on  earth  could  he  have  found 
out?  She  had  thought  he  would  go  on  not 
knowing — for  ever.  That  this  should  happen 
now,  when  she  was  so  happy  too, — when 
everything  was  so — so  comfortable. 

"  Tell  me — tell  me  at  once,  Bella,"  he  said 
again,  shaken  almost  out  of  his  self-control  by 
her  pretended  lack  of  understanding. 

But  Bella  made  no  answer ;  she  was  retreat- 
ing warily  towards  the  open  window;  Oliver, 
poor  angry  Oliver,  could  not  say  much,  he 
could  not  do  anything,  out  on  the  balcony. 

But  he  grasped  her  arm.  "  Come  back," 
he  said,  "  right  into  the  room,"  and  forced  her, 
trembling,  down  into  a  low  chair.  "  Now  tell 
me,"  he  repeated.  "Don't  keep  me  waiting 


138  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

— I  can't  stand  it.  I  won't  hurt  you."  He 
leant  over  her,  grasping  her  soft  arm. 

But  still  Bella  said  nothing.  Her  free  hand 
was  toying  with  the  fringe  of  her  blue  sash. 
She  had  become  very  pale,  a  sickly  yellow 
colour  which  made  her  violet  eyes  seem  blue, 
— for  one  terrible  moment  Oliver  thought  she 
was  going  to  faint. 

"Why  should  I  tell  you?  "  she  muttered  at 
last,  "  you  can't  force  me  to  tell  you.  It's  a 
matter  personal  to  myself.  It's  no  business 
of  yours.  I've  never  spent  any  of  the  money 
on  you," — she  unfortunately  added,  "  at  least 
hardly  any." 

Germaine  took  his  hand  from  her  arm.  "  My 
God!"  he  said,  "my  God!" 

Did  a  dim  gleam  of  what  he  was  feeling 
penetrate  Bella's  brain? 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  trouble  to 
ask  me,"  she  said  defiantly.  "  Surely  you 
must  know  well  enough." 

"  I  daresay  I'm  stupid,  but  I  find  it  very 
difficult  to  guess  which  of  the  two,  Joliffe  or 
• — or  Uvedale,  is  your  lover." 

"My  lover?  Joliffe— Uvedale?"  Bella 
started  to  her  feet,  the  colour  rushed  back  into 
her  face.  She  was  shaking  with  anger  and 
indignation. 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE     139 

"  How  dare  you  insult  me  so? "  she  gasped. 
"  You  wouldn't  have  dared  to  say  such  a 
thing  if  my  father  had  been  alive !  How  dare 
you  say,  how  dare  you  think,  I  have  a  lover? " 
and  then  with  quivering  pain  she  gave  a  little 
cry,  "Oh,  Oliver!" 

Germaine  looked  at  her  grimly  enough. 
What  a  fool — what  an  abject  fool  he  had 
been!  It  fed  his  anger  to  see  that  Bella 
had  so  poor  an  opinion  of  his  intelligence  as 
to  suppose  that  he  would  believe  her  de- 
nial. 

"  I  know  you  are  lying,"  he  said  briefly. 
"  I  know  it  is  either  Joliffe  or  Uvedale." 

"But,  Oliver— indeed  it  isn't!" 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  a  very  curious 
expression ;  the  fear,  the  real  terror,  there  had 
been  in  her  face,  had  left  it.  She  was  staring 
at  her  husband  as  if  she  were  seeking  to  find 
on  his  face  some  indication  of  a  distraught, 
unhinged  mind. 

But  he  looked  cool,  collected,  stern, — and 
anger  again  surged  up  in  Bella's  heart.  If  he 
were  sane  she  would  never — never  forgive  him 
his  vile  suspicion  of  her.  Was  it  for  this  that 
she,  Bella,  had  always  gone  so  straight — never 
even  been  tempted  to  go  otherwise,  in  spite 
of  all  the  admiration  lavished  on  her? 


140  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

There  had  been  a  time  in  Bella  Germaine's 
life,  some  two  years  before,  when  she  had 
often  rehearsed  this  scene,  when  she  had  been 
so  haunted  by  the  fear  of  it  that  it  had  been 
a  constant  nightmare. 

But  never  had  she  imagined  the  conversa- 
tion between  Oliver  and  herself  taking  the 
turn  it  now  had.  Never,  in  her  most  an- 
guished dreams,  had  Oliver  accused  her  of 
having — a  lover.  But  she  had  known,  only 
too  well,  with  what  anger  and  amazement  he 
would  learn  the  lesser  truth. 

"  Peter  JolifFe? "  she  said,  with  a  certain 
scorn.  "  How  little  you  know  Peter,  Oliver, 
if  you  think  he  would  be  any  married  woman's 
lover,  let  alone  mine !  Why,  Peter's  a  regular 
old  maid !  "  She  laughed  a  little  hysterically 
at  her  simile,  and,  to  her  husband,  the  merri- 
ment, which  he  felt  to  be  genuine,  lowered 
the  discussion  to  a  level  which  was  hateful — 
sordid. 

"  Then  it's  Uvedale,"  he  said,  heavily;  and 
this  time,  so  he  was  quick  to  notice,  Bella  did 
not  take  the  trouble  to  utter  a  direct  denial. 

"  Bob  Uvedale?  Are  you  quite  mad?  Bob 
Uvedale  is  really  fond  of  you,  Oliver, — do  you 
honestly  think  he  would  make  love  to  me? " 

She  was   actually   arguing  with  him;   he 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE    141 

shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a  hopeless  ges- 
ture. 

Then  Bella  Germaine  came  quite  close  up 
to  her  husband.  She  looked  at  him  straight  in 
the  eyes. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  I  see  you  really 

don't  know.  It's — it's "  she  hesitated, 

again  a  look  of  shame, — more,  of  fear, — came 
into  her  face,  "  The  person  who  has  been  giv- 
ing me  money,  Oliver,  is  Rabbit." 

"Rabbit?    I  don't  believe  you!" 

"  You  don't  believe  me?" 

Bella  drew  a  long  breath.  The  worst,  from 
her  point  of  view,  was  now  over.  She  had 
told  the  truth, — and  Oliver  had  brushed  the 
truth  aside,  so  possessed  by  insane  jealousy  of 
Peter  Joliffe  and  Bob  Uvedale,  that  he  had 
apparently  no  room  in  his  heart  for  anything 
else. 

Bella  gave  a  little  sigh  of  relief.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  she  had  made  a  mistake  in  being  so 
frightened ;  men  are  so  queer — perhaps  Oliver 
would  feel,  as  she  had  now  felt  for  so  long, 
that  poor  old  Rabbit  could  not  find  a  better 
use  for  his  money  than  in  making  her  happy. 

She  walked  over  to  her  pretty  desk,  and 
frowned  a  little  as  she  saw  its  condition  of  dis- 
array; the  receipted  bills  which  she  had  found 


142  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

her  husband  looking  over  were  scattered,  even 
the  tradesmen's  books  had  not  been  put  back 
in  their  place  on  the  little  shelf. 

She  touched  the  spring  of  a  rather  obvious 
secret  drawer.  There  had  been  a  time  when 
Bella  Germaine  had  hidden  very  carefully 
what  she  was  now  about  to  show  Oliver  as  the 
certain,  triumphant  proof  that  his  revolting 
suspicions  were  false.  But  of  late  she  had 
grown  careless. 

"  If  you  don't  believe  me,"  she  said  coldly, 
"  look  at  this,  Oliver.  I  think  it  will  convince 
you  that  I  told  the  truth  just  now." 

Bella  knew  she  had  a  right  to  be  bitterly 
indignant  at  her  husband's  preposterous  ac- 
cusation. But  she  told  herself  that  now  was 
not  the  time  to  show  it;  she  would  punish 
Oliver  later  on. 

She  waited  a  moment  and  then  cried, 
"Catch!" 

Oliver  instinctively  held  out  his  hands.  A 
bulky  envelope  fell  into  them.  It  was  ad- 
dressed in  a  handwriting  he  knew  well, — the 
unformed,  and  yet  meticulous  handwriting 
of  Henry  Buck.  On  it  was  written : 

"  Mrs.  Oliver  Germaine, 
"  19,  West  Chapel  Street, 
"  Mayf  air." 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE      143 

In  the  corner  were  added  the  words: 

"  Any  one  finding  this,  and  taking  it  to  the  above 
address,  will  be  handsomely  rewarded." 

"Open  it!"  she  said  imperiously.  "Open 
it,  and  see  what  is  inside, — he  only  brought 
it  to-day." 

Oliver  opened  the  envelope.  Folded  in  two 
pieces  of  paper  was  a  packet  of  bank-notes 
held  together  with  an  elastic  band. 

Germaine  looked  up  questioningly  at  his 
wife. 

Bella  hung  her  head.  She  had  the  grace  to 
feel  embarrassed,  ashamed  in  this  moment  that 
she  believed  to  be  the  moment  of  her  exculpa- 
tion. Her  pretty  little  hands,  laden  with 
rings,  each  one  of  which  had  been  given  her  by 
her  husband,  were  again  toying  with  the  fringe 
of  her  blue  sash. 

The  silence  grew  intolerable. 

"  I  know  I've  been  a  beast," — her  voice 
faltered,  broke  into  tears.  "I  knew  you 
wouldn't  like  it,  but — but  you  know,  Oliver, 
Rabbit  isn't  like  an  ordinary  man." 

"When  did  he  begin  to  give  you  money?" 
asked  Oliver,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  A  long  time  ago,"  she  answered,  vaguely. 


144  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

"  He  came  in  one  day  when  I  was  awfully  up- 
set about  a  bill — a  bill  of  that  old  devil,  Bliss, 
— and  he  was  so  kind,  Oliver.  He  explained 
how  awfully  fond  he  was  of  us  both.  He  said 
we  were  his  only  friends — I  always  have  been 
nice  to  him,  you  know.  He  said  he  couldn't 
spend  the  money  he'd  got " 

"  How  much  have  you  had  from  him? " 

"  I  can  tell  you  exactly,"  she  said  eagerly, 
and  again  she  moved  towards  her  bureau. 

Bella  felt  utterly  dejected;  somehow  she 
had  not  expected  Oliver  to  take  the  news 
quite  in  this  way;  he  looked  dreadful — not 
relieved,  as  she  had  thought  he  would  do. 

It  was  with  slow  lagging  steps  that  she 
walked  back  to  where  her  husband  was  still 
standing  with  the  envelope  and  its  contents 
crushed  in  his  right  hand. 

Bella's  love  of  tidiness  and  method  had 
stood  her  in  fatally  good  stead.  She  had  put 
down  all  the  sums  she  had  received  from 
Henry  Buck,  but  in  such  a  fashion  that  any 
one  else  looking  at  the  figures  would  not  have 
known  money  was  in  question. 

Oliver  stared  down  at  the  piece  of  paper. 
Insensibly  he  straightened  his  shoulders  as  if 
to  meet  calmly  a  physical  blow.  "  Are  these 
pounds? "  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE    145 

"But  Bella,  it's  an  enormous  sum, — over 
four  thousand." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  she  said  listlessly. 

Her  husband  put  the  paper  in  his  breast 
pocket ;  then  he  hesitated  a  moment,  and  Bella 
thought  he  was  perhaps  going  to  hand  her 
back  the  envelope  and  its  contents.  But  that 
also,  to  her  chagrin,  disappeared  into  his 
pocket. 

"  I  suppose  the  money  Buck  brought  you 
to-day  is  included  in  this  amount? " 

Bella  shook  her  head  sadly.  "  I  hadn't 
time  to  put  it  down,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  111  see  what  can  be  done." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  to  pay  it  all  back?  I 
suppose  " — her  voice  was  trembling  with  self- 
pity — "that  we  shall  have  to  go  and  live  in 
the  country  now? " 

He  said  nothing, — only  looked  at  her  with 
that  same  cold  look  of  surprise  and  alienation. 

He  was  leaving  the  room  when  a  cry  from 
her  brought  him  back.  She  clutched  his 
hand. 

"  You've  never  said  you're  sorry  for  the 

horrible  thing  you  said  to  me "  and,  as  he 

looked  at  her,  still  silent,  "  Oliver!  you  surely 

don't  think  that  Rabbit Why,  he's  never 

even  squeezed  my  hand!" 

"Stop!"    he   cried   roughly.     "Don't   be 


146  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

silly,  Bella.  Of  course  I  don't  think  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  I  accept  absolutely  what 
you  tell  me  of  your  relations  with  Henry 
Buck." 

"  Why,  there  have  been  no  relations  with 
Henry  Buck  and  me,"  she  cried,  protesting. 
"  What  a  hateful  word  to  use,  Oliver !  " 

But  he  was  already  out  of  the  door,  making 
his  way  to  the  only  human  being  in  whom  he 
still  felt  complete  confidence,  who,  he  knew, 
loved  him,  in  the  good  old  homely  sense  of  the 
word. 

•  •  *  •  • 

"  My  dear  boy,  what  is  the  matter? " 

Fanny  sat  up.  She  had  been  lying  down 
on  the  sofa  in  the  sitting-room  of  her  lodgings. 
Oliver  had  explained  to  the  servant  that  he 
was  Mrs.  Burdon's  brother,  and  he  had  been 
allowed  to  make  his  own  way  up  to  the  draw- 
ing-room floor. 

"  There's  a  good  deal  the  matter,"  he  said. 
"  The  fact  is  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself, 
Fanny, — and  I've  come  to  you  for  help." 

Fanny  looked  up  at  him,  and  what  she  saw 
checked  the  words  on  her  lips.  She  was  wide 
awake  now,  but  rather  painfully  conscious 
that  she  looked  untidy.  Her  smart  voile 


A  VERY  MODERN  INSTANCE    147 

gown — voile  was  the  "smart"  material  that 
season — was  crumpled.  And  Oliver's  wife, 
Bella,  was  always  so  dreadfully,  so  unnatur- 
ally, tidy  and  neat, — it  was  one  of  the  things 
that  perhaps  made  people  think  her  so  much 
prettier  than  she  really  was. 

"  Of  course  I  will  help  you,"  she  answered 
briskly.  "  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  Have  you  still  that  five  thousand  pounds 
Cousin  Andrew  left  you?  " 

"Why  of  course  I  have, — and  it's  rather 
more  now,  for  luckily  we  didn't  put  it  into 
Consols;  we  put  it  into  a  Canadian  security." 

"  Is  it  invested  in  Dick's  name?  " 

Dick's  wife  laughed.  "  No,  of  course  it 
isn't,"  she  said.  "  Why  should  it  be?  " 

"  Could  you  get  at  it  without  Dick's  know- 
ing? " 

'  Yes,  I  suppose  I  could."  TJiere  was  a 
touch  of  wonder  in  her  voice. 

"  Fanny,  I  want  you  to  lend  me  four  thou- 
sand pounds."  Oliver  spoke  huskily.  He 
was  staring  out  of  the  window. 

His  sister  looked  at  him  rather  queerly  for 
a  moment:  "Yes,  of  course  I  will,"  she  said. 
And,  as  he  turned  to  her,  his  face  working, — 
"  You  needn't  make  a  fuss  about  it,  dear  old 


148  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

boy.  You'll  pay  me  back  all  right,  I  know 
that." 

"  I'll  insure  against  it,  and  I'll  pay  you 
proper  interest  for  it — whatever  you're  get- 
ting now,"  he  said.  "  And  we'll  get  a  lawyer 
to  see  that  it's  all  made  safe." 

"  That'll  be  all  right,"  said  Fanny,  and  then 
again  she  gave  him  that  curious,  considering 
look. 

Germaine  pulled  himself  together.  "  You'll 
think  I've  been  a  fool,"  he  exclaimed  abruptly, 
— he  had  to  say  something  in  answer  to  that 
look, — "  and  so  I  have.  But  you  know — at 
least  you  don't  know,  luckily  for  you — what 
it's  like  to  be  mixed  up  with  a  lot  of  fellows 
who  are  all  richer  than  one  is  oneself; "  and 
then  in  a  very  different  tone,  one  in  which  his 
sister  felt  the  ring  of  truth,  "  Are  you  sure 
Dick  won't  know,  Fanny?  I  don't  want  Dick 
to  know." 

"  Of  course  he  won't  know,"  Fanny  smiled. 
"You  don't  suppose  I  tell  Dick  every- 
thing? " 

Oliver  stared  at  his  sister.  He  was  rather 
shocked  by  her  admission;  till  to-day  he  had 
thought  that  all  husbands  and  wives  who 
loved  one  another  told  each  other  everything; 
and  yet,  here  was  Fanny,  who  hadn't  a 


A  VERY  MODERN   INSTANCE     149 

thought  in  the  world  beyond  Dick,  the  chil- 
dren, the  dogs — and,  and,  yes,  her  brother 

"  It's  none  of  Dick's  business  what  I  choose 
to  do  with  my  own  money — not  that  he'd 
mind." 

"  I  think  of  spreading  the  re-payment  over 
five  years." 

"That  would  be  rather  too  soon,"  she  said; 
and  added,  looking  away  as  she  spoke,  "  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  fair  to  Bella." 

Oliver  reddened,  a  man's  dusky  unbecom- 
ing blush. 

"  Bella's  been  good  about  it,"  he  said 
briefly.  "  She  said  herself  that  we  should 
have  to  go  and  live  in  the  country.  Still,  let's 
make  it  seven  years.  I  say,  Fanny,  you  are 
a  brick,"  and  sitting  down  by  the  table,  Oliver 
Germaine  broke  into  hard,  painful  sobs. 

Fanny  got  up  off  the  sofa.  She  felt  rather 
shy. 

"  Don't  be  so  worried,"  she  said.  "  Bella's 
a  very  good  sort,  and  awfully  fond  of  you,  old 
boy.  She'll  like  the  country  better  than  you 
think.  Her  looks  will  last  twice  as  long  there, 
and,  and — if  I  were  you,  Oliver — you  and 
Bella  I  mean,"  Fanny  got  rather  mixed,  and 
very  red — "  well,  I'd  try  and  have  a  baby. 
Bella  would  look  awfully  sweet  with  a  baby. 


150  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

And  a  baby's  no  trouble  in  the  country — less 
trouble  than  a  puppy!  " 

"  Yes,  that's  true,"  he  said,  raising  his  head, 
and  feeling  vaguely  comforted.  His  sister 
Fanny  had  a  lot  of  sense.  Oliver  had  always 
known  that. 


IV 
ACCORDING  TO  MEREDITH 


ACCORDING  TO  MEREDITH 

"  Certainly,  however,  one  day  these  present  condi- 
tions of  marriage  will  be  changed.  Marriage  will  be 
allowed  for  a  certain  period,  say  ten  years." — Mr. 
GEORGE  MEREDITH  in  the  Daily  Mail  of  September 
24th,  1904. 

"  GIVE  you  some  heads?  My  dear  fellow, 
there  need  be  no  question  of  heads!  This  is 
to  be  a  model  will.  You  need  simply  put 
down,  in  as  few  words  as  are  legally  permissi- 
ble— I  know  nothing  of  such  things — that  I 
leave  all  of  which  I  die  possessed  to  my  wife." 

Philip  Dering  threw  his  head  back,  and 
gave  the  man  to  whom  he  was  speaking,  and 
opposite  to  whom  he  was  standing,  a  confident 
smiling  glance.  Then  he  turned  and  walked 
quickly  over  to  the  narrow,  old-fashioned,  bal- 
conied window  which,  commanding  the  wide 
wind-blown  expanse  of  Abingdon  Street,  ex- 
actly faced  the  great  cavity  formed  by  the 
arch  of  the  Victoria  Tower. 

To  the  right  lay  the  riverside  garden,  a 
bright  patch  of  delicate  spring  colouring  and 
green  verdure,  bounded  by  the  slow-moving 
grey  waters  of  the  Thames;  and  Dering's 

153 


154          STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

eager  eyes  travelled  on  till  he  saw,  detaching 
itself  against  an  April  afternoon  horizon,  the 
irregular  mass  of  building  formed  by  Lambeth 
Palace  and  the  Lollards'  Tower. 

"  I  say,"  he  exclaimed,  rather  suddenly, 
"this  is  better  than  Bedford  Park,  eh?  I 
suppose  a  floor  in  one  of  these  houses  would 
cost  us  a  tremendous  lot;  even  beyond  our 
means,  Wingfield? "  and  again  a  happy  smile 
came  over  the  tense,  clear-cut  face,  still  full  of 
youthful  glow  and  enthusiasm. 

"You  wish  everything  to  go  to  Louise? 
All  right,  I'll  make  a  note  of  that.'* 

The  speaker,  a  round-faced,  slightly  bald, 
shrewd-looking  lawyer,  took  no  notice  of  the, 
to  him,  absurd  question  concerning  the  rent  of 
floors  in  Abingdon  Street.  Still,  he  looked 
indulgently  at  his  friend,  as  he  added: 

"But  wait  a  bit, — I  promise  that  yours 
shall  be  a  model  will, — only  you  seem  to  have 
forgotten,  my  dear  fellow,  that  you  may  out- 
live your  wife.  Now,  should  you  have  the 
misfortune  to  lose  Louise,  to  whom  would  you 
wish  to  devise  this  fifteen  thousand  pounds? 
It's  possible,  too,  though  not  very  probable,  I 
admit,  that  you  may  both  die  at  the  same  time 
— both  be  killed  in  a  railway  accident  for  in- 
stance." 


ACCORDING  TO  MEREDITH    155 

"  Such  good  fortune  may  befall  us " 

Dering  spoke  quite  simply,  and  accepted  the 
other's  short  laugh  with  great  good-humour. 
"  Oh!  you  know  what  I  mean;  I  always  have 
thought  husbands  and  wives — who  care,  I 
mean — ought  to  die  on  the  same  day.  That 
they  don't  do  so  is  one  of  the  many  strange 
mysteries  which  complicate  life.  But  I  say, 
Wingfield " 

The  speaker  had  turned  away  from  the  win- 
dow. He  had  again  taken  up  his  stand  oppo 
site  the  other's  broad  writing  table,  and  not 
even  the  cheap,  ill-made  clothes  could  hide  the 
graceful  lines  of  the  tall,  active  figure,  not 
even  the  turned-down  collar  and  orange  silk 
tie  could  destroy  the  young  man's  look  of 
rather  subtle  distinction. 

"  Failing  Louise,  I  should  like  this  money, 
at  my  death,  to  be  divided  equally  between  the 
young  Hintons  and  your  kids,"  and  as  the 
other  made  a  gesture  of  protest,  Dering  added 
quickly: 

"What  better  could  I  do?  Louise  is  de- 
voted to  Jack  Hinton's  children,  and  I've  al- 
ways regarded  you — I  have  indeed,  old  man, 
— as  my  one  real  friend.  Of  course  it's  possi- 
ble now," — an  awkward  shy  break  came  into 
his  voice — "  it's  possible  now,  I  say,  that  we 


156  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

may  have  children  of  our  own;  I  don't  sup- 
pose you've  ever  realised  how  poor,  how  hor- 
ribly poor,  we've  been  all  these  years." 

He  looked  away,  avoiding  the  other  man's 
eyes;  then,  picking  up  his  hat  and  stick  with 
a  quick,  nervous  gesture,  was  gone. 

After  the  door  had  shut  on  his  friend, 
Wingfield  went  on  still  standing  for  awhile. 
His  hands  mechanically  sorted  the  papers  and 
letters  lying  on  his  table  into  neat  little  heaps, 
but  his  thoughts  were  travelling  backward, 
through  his  and  Dering's  past  lives. 

The  friends  had  first  met  at  the  City  of 
London  school,  for  they  were  much  of  an  age, 
though  the  lawyer  looked  the  elder  of  the  two. 
Then  Dering  had  gone  to  Cambridge,  and 
Wingfield,  more  humbly,  to  take  up  life  as  an 
articled  clerk  to  a  good  firm  of  old-established 
attorneys.  Again,  later,  they  had  come  to- 
gether once  more,  sharing  a  modest  lodging, 
while  Dering  earned  a  small  uncertain  income 
by  contributing  to  the  literary  weeklies,  by 
**  ghosting  "  writers  more  fortunate  than  him- 
self, by  tutoring  whenever  he  got  the  chance, 
• — in  a  word,  by  resorting  to  the  few  expedi- 
ents open  to  the  honest  educated  Londoner 
lacking  a  definite  profession. 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH    157 

The  two  men  had  not  parted  company  till 
Dering,  enabled  to  do  so  with  the  help  of  a 
small  legacy,  had  chosen  to  marry  a  Danish 
girl,  as  good-looking,  as  high-minded,  as  un- 
practical as  himself. 

But  stay,  had  Louise  Dering  groved  herself 
so  unpractical  during  the  early  years  of  her 
married  life? 

Wingfield,  standing  there,  his  mind  steeped 
in  memories,  compared  her,  with  an  uncon- 
scious critical  sigh,  with  his  own  stolid,  unim- 
aginative wife,  Kate.  As  he  did  so  he  won- 
dered whether,  after  all,  Dering  had  not 
known  how  to  make  the  best  of  both  worlds; 
and  yet  he  and  his  Louise  had  gone  through 
some  bad  times  together. 

Wingfield  had  been  the  one  intimate  of  the 
young  couple  when  they  began  their  married 
life  in  a  three-roomed  flat  in  Gray's  Inn;  and 
he  had  been  aware,  painfully  so,  of  the  inces- 
sant watchful  struggle  with  money  difficulties, 
never  mentioned  while  the  struggle  was  in  be- 
ing, for  only  the  rich  can  afford  to  complain 
of  poverty.  He  had  admired,  it  might  almost 
be  said  he  had  reverenced  with  all  his  heart, 
the  high  courage  then  shown  by  his  friend's 
wife. 

During  those  first  difficult  years,  when  he, 


158  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Wingfield,  could  do  nothing  for  them,  Louise 
had  gone  without  the  help  of  even  the  least 
adequate  servant.  The  women  of  her  nation 
are  taught  housewifery  as  an  indispensable 
feminine  accomplishment,  and  so  she  had 
scrubbed  and  sung,  cooked  and  read,  made 
and  mended,  for  Philip  and  herself. 

Wingfield  was  glad  to  remember  that  it  was 
he  who  had  at  last  found  Bering  regular  em- 
ployment ;  he  who  had  so  far  thrown  prudence 
aside  as  to  persuade  one  of  his  first  and  most 
valuable  clients  to  appoint  his  clever  if  eccen- 
tric friend  secretary  to  a  company  formed  to 
exploit  a  new  invention.  The  work  had 
proved  congenial;  Dering  had  done  admirably 
well,  and  now,  when  his  salary  had  just 
been  raised  to  four  hundred  a  year,  a  dis- 
tant, almost  unknown,  cousin  of  his  dead 
mother's  had  left  him  fifteen  thousand 
pounds  I 

At  last  James  Wingfield  sat  down.  He 
began  making  notes  of  the  instructions  he  had 
just  received,  though  as  he  did  so  he  knew 
well  enough  that  he  could  not  bring  himself  to 
draw  up  a  will  by  which  his  own  children 
might  so  greatly  benefit. 

Then,  as  he  sat,  pen  in  hand,  wondering 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     159 

with  a  certain  discomfort  as  to  what  ought  to 
be  the  practical  effect  of  the  conversation, 
there  suddenly  came  a  sound  of  hurrying  feet 
up  the  shallow  oak  staircase,  and  through  the 
door,  flung  open  quickly  and  unceremoni- 
ously, strode  once  more  Philip  Dering. 

"I  say,  I've  forgotten  something!"  he  ex- 
claimed, and  then,  as  Wingfield  instinctively 
looked  round  the  bare  spacious  room — "  No, 
I  didn't  leave  anything  behind  me.  I  simply 
forgot  to  ask  you  one  very  important  ques- 
tion  " 

He  took  off  his  hat,  put  it  down  with  a  cer- 
tain deliberation,  then  drew  up  a  chair,  and 
placed  himself  astride  on  it,  an  action  which 
to  the  other  suddenly  seemed  to  blot  out  the 
years  which  had  gone  by  since  they  had  been 
housemates  together. 

"  As  I  went  down  your  jolly  old  staircase, 
Wingfield,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that 
making  a  will  may  not  be  quite  so  simple  a 
matter  as  I  once  thought  it " 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  on: — 
"  So  I've  come  back  to  ask  you  the  meaning 
of  the  term  '  proving  a  will.'  What  I  really 
want  to  get  at,  old  man,  is  whether  my  wife,  if 
she  became  a  widow,  would  have  to  give  any 
actual  legal  proof  of  our  marriage?  Would 


160  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

she  be  compelled,  I  mean,  to  show  her  'mar- 
riage lines '  ? " 

Wingfield  hesitated.  The  question  took 
him  by  surprise. 

"  I  fancy  that  would  depend,"  he  said,  "  on 
the  actual  wording  of  the  will,  but  all  that  sort 
of  thing  is  a  mere  formality,  and  of  course  any 
solicitor  employed  by  her  would  see  to  it.  By 
the  way,  I  suppose  you  were  married  in  Den- 
mark? "  He  frowned,  annoyed  with  himself 
for  having  forgotten  a  fact  with  which  he  must 
have  been  once  well  acquainted.  "  If  you 
had  asked  me  to  be  your  best  man,"  he  added 
with  a  vexed  laugh,  "  I  shouldn't  have  forgot- 
ten the  circumstances." 

Dering  tipped  the  chair  which  he  was  be- 
striding a  little  nearer  to  the  edge  of  the  table 
which  stood  between  himself  and  Wingfield ;  a 
curious  look,  a  look  half  humorous,  half  dep- 
recating, but  in  no  sense  ashamed,  came  over 
his  sensitive,  mobile  face. 

"  No,"  he  said,  at  length,  "  we  were  not 
married  in  Denmark.  Neither  were  we  mar- 
ried in  England.  In  fact,  there  was  no  cere- 
mony at  all." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men,  of  the  speaker 
and  of  his  listener,  met  for  a  moment;  but 


ACCORDING   TO    MEREDITH     161 

Wingfield,  to  the  other's  sudden  uneasy  sur- 
prise, made  no  comment  on  what  he  had  just 
heard. 

Dering  sprang  up,  and  during  the  rest  of 
their  talk  he  walked,  with  short,  quick  strides, 
from  the  door  to  the  window,  from  the  window 
to  the  door. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  at  the  time,  but 
Louise  would  not  have  it;  though  I  told  her 
that  in  principle — not,  of  course,  in  practice — 
you  thoroughly  agreed  with  me — I  mean  with 
us.  Nay,  more,  that  you,  with  your  clear, 
legal  mind,  had  always  realised,  even  more 
than  I  could  do,  the  utter  absurdity  of  mak- 
ing such  a  contract  as  that  of  marriage — 
which  of  all  contracts  is  the  most  intimately 
personal,  and  which  least  affects  the  interests 
of  those  outside  the  contracting  parties — the 
only  legal  contract  which  can't  be  rescinded 
or  dissolved  by  mutual  agreement!  Then 
again,  you  must  admit  that  there  was  one 
really  good  reason  why  we  should  not  tell  you 
the  truth ;  you  already  liked  Kate,  and  Louise, 
don't  you  remember,  used  to  play  chaperon. 
Now,  Kate's  people,  you  know !  " 

All  the  humour  had  gone  out  of  Dering's 
face,  but  the  deprecating  look  had  deepened. 

The  lawyer  made  a  strong  effort  over  him- 


162  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

self.  He  had  felt  for  a  moment  keenly  hurt, 
and  not  a  little  angry. 

"  I  don't  think,"  he  said  quietly,  "  that  there 
is  any  need  of  explanations  or  apologies  be- 
tween us.  Of  course,  I  can't  help  feeling 
very  much  surprised,  and  that  in  spite  of  our 
old  theoretical  talks  and  discussions,  concern- 
ing— well,  this  subject.  But  I  don't  doubt 
that  in  the  circumstances  you  did  quite  right. 
Mind  you,  I  don't  mean  about  the  marriage," 
he  quickly  corrected  himself,  "but  only  as  to 
the  concealment  from  me." 

He  waited  a  moment,  and  then  went  on, 
hesitatingly:  "But  even  now  I  don't  really 
understand  what  happened — I  should  like  to 
know  a  little  more " 

Dering  stayed  his  walk  across  the  room,  and 
stood  opposite  his  friend.  He  felt  a  great 
wish  to  justify  himself,  and  to  win  Wing- 
field's  retrospective  sympathy. 

"  I  will  tell  you  everything  there  is  to  tell! " 
he  cried  eagerly;  "  indeed,  it  can  all  be  told  in 
a  moment.  My  wife  and  I  entered  into  a  per- 
sonal contract  together,  which  we  arranged, 
provisionally,  of  course,  should  last  ten  years. 
Louise  was  quite  willing,  absolutely  willing. 
.  .  ."  For  the  first  time  there  came  a  defen- 
sive note  in  the  eager  voice.  "  You  see  the 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH    163 

idea — that  of  leasehold  marriage?  We  used 
to  talk  about  it,  you  and  I,  of  course  only  as  a 
Utopian  possibility.  All  I  can  say  is  that  I 
had  the  good  fortune  to  meet  with  a  woman 
with  whom  I  was  able  to  try  the  experiment; 
and  all  I  can  tell  you  is — well,  I  need  not  tell 
you,  Wingfield,  that  there  has  never  been  a 
happier  marriage  than  ours."  Again  Dering 
started  pacing  up  and  down  the  room. 
"  Louise  has  been  everything — everything — 
everything — that  such  a  man  as  myself  could 
have  looked  for  in  a  wife !  " 

"  And  has  no  one  ever  guessed — has  no  one 
ever  known?  "  asked  the  other,  rather  sternly. 

"  Absolutely  no  one  I  Yes,  wait  a  moment 
— there  has  been  one  exception.  Louise  told 
Gerda  Hinton.  You  know  they  became  very 
intimate  after  we  went  to  Bedford  Park,  and 
Louise  thought  Gerda  ought  to  know.  But  it 
made  no  difference — no  difference  at  all !  " 
he  added,  emphatically ;  "  for  in  fact  poor 
Gerda  practically  left  her  baby  to  Louise's 
care." 

"  And  that  worthless  creature,  Jack  Hinton 
• — does  he  know  too?  " 

"No,  I  don't  think  so;  in  fact  I  may  say 
most  decidedly  not — but  of  course  Gerda  may 
have  told  him,  though  for  my  part  I  don't  be- 


164  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

lieve  that  husbands  and  wives  share  their 
friends'  secrets.  Still,  you  are  quite  at  liberty 
to  teU  Kate." 

"  No,"  said  Wingfield,  "  I  don't  intend  to 
tell  Kate,  and  there  will  be  no  reason  for  do- 
ing so  if  you  will  take  my  advice — which  is,  I 
need  hardly  tell  you,  to  go  and  get  married  at 
once.  Now  that  you  have  come  into  this 
money,  your  marrying  becomes  a  positive 
duty.  Are  you  aware  that  if  you  were  run 
over  and  killed  on  your  way  home  to-day 
Louise  would  have  no  standing?  that  she 
would  not  have  a  right  to  a  penny  of  this 
money,  or  even  to  any  of  the  furniture  which 
is  in  your  house?  Let  me  see,  how  long  is  it 
that  you  have  been  " — he  hesitated  awkwardly 
—"together?" 

Bering  looked  round  at  him  rather  fiercely. 
"  We  have  been  married  nine  years  and  a 
half,"  he  said.  "  Our  wedding  day  was  the 
first  of  September.  We  spent  our  honey- 
moon in  Denmark.  You  remember  my  little 
legacy?  " 

Wingfield  nodded  his  head.  His  heart 
suddenly  went  out  to  his  friend — the  prosper- 
ous lawyer  had  reason  to  remember  that  hun- 
dred pounds  legacy,  for  ten  pounds  of  it  had 
gone  to  help  him  out  of  some  foolish  scrape. 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     165 

But  Dering  had  forgotten  all  that;  he  went  on 
speaking,  but  more  slowly: 

"  And  then,  as  you  know,  we  came  back  and 
settled  down  in  Gray's  Inn,  and  though  we 
were  horribly  poor,  perhaps  poorer  than  even 
you  ever  guessed,  we  were  divinely  happy." 
He  turned  his  back  to  the  room  and  stared 
out  once  more  at  the  greyness  opposite. 

"  But  you're  quite  right,  old  man,  it's  time 
we  did  like  our  betters!  We'll  be  married  at 
once,  and  I'll  take  her  off  for  another  and  a 
longer  honeymoon,  and  we'll  come  back  and 
be  even  happier  than  we  were  before." 

Then  again,  as  abruptly  as  before,  he  was 
gone,  shutting  the  door  behind  him,  and  leav- 
ing Wingfield  staring  thoughtfully  after  him. 

That  his  friend,  that  the  Philip  Dering  of 
ten  years  ago,  should  have  done  such  a  thing, 
was  in  no  way  remarkable,  but  that  Louise— 
the  thoughtful,  well-balanced,  intelligent  wo- 
man, who,  coming  as  a  mere  girl  from  Den- 
mark, had  known  how  to  work  her  way  up  to 
a  position  of  great  trust  and  responsibility  in 
a  City  house,  so  winning  the  esteem  and  con- 
fidence of  her  employers  that  they  had  again 
and  again  asked  her  to  return  to  them  after 
her  marriage — that  she  should  have  consented 
to  such — to  such  .  .  .  Wingfield  even  in  his 


166  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

own  mind  hesitated  for  the  right  word  .  .  . 
to  such  an  arrangement — seemed  to  the  law- 
yer an  astounding  thing,  savouring  indeed  of 
the  fifth  dimension. 

No,  no,  he  would  certainly  not  tell  Kate 
anything  about  it.  Why  should  he?  He 
knew  very  well  how  his  wife  would  regard  the 
matter,  and  how  her  condemnation  would  fall, 
not  on  Louise — Kate  had  become  exceedingly 
fond  of  Louise — no,  indeed,  but  on  Dering. 
Kate  had  never  cordially  "  taken  "  (a  favour- 
ite word  of  hers,  that)  to  Wingfield's  friend; 
she  thought  him  affected  and  unpractical,  and 
she  laughed  at  his  turned-down  collars  and 
Liberty  ties.  No,  no,  there  was  no  reason 
why  Kate  should  be  told  a  word  of  this  ex- 
traordinary, this  amazing  story. 

On  leaving  Abingdon  Street,  Philip  Der- 
ing swung  across  the  broad  roadway,  and 
made  his  way,  almost  instinctively,  to  the  gar- 
den which  lay  so  nearly  opposite  his  friend's 
office  windows.  He  wanted  to  calm  down,  to 
think  things  over,  and  to  recover  full  posses- 
sion of  himself  before  going  home. 

It  had  cost  him  a  considerable  effort  to  tell 
Wingfield  this  thing.  Not  that  he  was  in  the 
least  ashamed  of  what  he  and  Louise  had  done 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH    167 

— on  the  contrary,  he  was  very  proud  of  it — 
but  he  had  often  felt,  during  all  those  years, 
that  he  was  being  treacherous  to  the  man  who 
was,  after  all,  his  best  friend;  and  there  was 
in  Dering  enough  of  the  feminine  element — 
that  element  which  Kate  Wingfield  so  thor- 
oughly despised  in  him — to  make  him  feel 
sorry  and  ashamed. 

However,  Wingfield  had  taken  it  very  well, 
just  as  he  would  have  wished  him  to  take  it, 
and  no  doubt  the  lawyer  had  given  thoroughly 
sound  advice.  This  unexpected,  this  huge 
legacy  made  all  the  difference.  Besides,  Der- 
ing knew  well  enough,  when  he  examined  his 
own  heart  and  conscience,  that  he  felt  very 
differently  about  all  manner  of  things  from 
what  he  had  been  wont  to  feel  say  ten  years 
ago. 

After  all,  he  was  following  in  the  footsteps 
of  men  greater  and  wiser  than  he.  It  is  im- 
possible to  be  wholly  consistent.  If  he  had 
been  consistent  he  would  have  refused  to  pay 
certain  taxes — in  fact,  to  have  been  wholly 
consistent  during  the  last  ten  years  would 
have  probably  landed  him,  England  being 
what  it  is,  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  He  shuddered, 
suddenly  remembering  that  for  awhile  his  own 
mother  had  been  insane. 


168  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Still,  as  he  strode  along  the  primly  kept 
paths  of  the  Thames-side  garden,  he  felt  a 
great  and,  as  he  thought,  a  legitimate  pride  in 
the  knowledge  that  in  this  one  all-important 
matter,  so  deeply  affecting  his  own  and 
Louise's  life,  he  and  she  had  triumphantly  de- 
fied convention,  and  had  come  out  victorious. 

The  young  man's  thoughts  suddenly  took  a 
softer,  a  more  intimate  turn;  he  told  himself, 
with  intense  secret  satisfaction,  that  Louise 
was  dearer,  ay,  far  dearer  and  more  indispen- 
sable to  him  now  than  she  had  been  during  the 
days  when  she  was  still  the  "  sweet  stranger 
whom  he  called  his  wife."  He  remembered 
once  saying  to  Wingfield  that  the  ideal  mate 
should  be  the  improbable,  be  able  at  once  to 
clean  a  grate,  to  cook  a  dinner,  and  to  discuss 
Ibsen!  Well,  Louise  had  more  than  fulfilled 
this  early  and  rather  absurd  ideal. 

From  the  day  when  they  had  first  met  and 
made  unconventional  acquaintance,  with  no 
intervening  friend  to  form  a  gossip-link  of  in- 
troduction, Dering  had  found  her  full  of  ever- 
recurrent  and  enchanting  surprises.  Her 
foreign  birth  and  upbringing  gave  her  both 
original  and  unsuspected  points  of  view  about 
everything  English,  and  he  had  often  thought, 
with  good-humoured  pity,  of  all  those  unfor- 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     169 

tunate  friends  of  his,  Wingfield  included, 
whose  lot  it  had  perforce  been  to  choose  their 
wives  among  their  own  country-women. 

Dering  had  not  seen  much  of  Denmark,  but 
everything  he  had  seen  had  won  his  enthusi- 
astic approval.  Where  else  were  modern 
women  to  be  found  at  once  so  practical  and 
so  cultivated,  so  pure-minded  and  so  large- 
hearted?  Perhaps  he  was  half  aware  that  his 
heaven  was  of  his  own  creation,  but  that,  in 
his  present  exalted  mood,  was  only  an  added 
triumph;  how  few  human  beings  can  evolve, 
and  preserve  at  will,  their  own  stretch  of  blue 
sky! 

Of  course  it  was  not  always  as  easy  as  it 
seemed  to  be  to-day;  lately  Louise  had  been 
listless  and  tired,  utterly  unlike  herself — 
even,  he  had  once  or  twice  thought  with  dis- 
may, slightly  hysterical!  But  all  that  would 
disappear,  utterly,  during  the  first  few  days 
of  their  coming  travels ;  and  even  he,  so  he  now 
reminded  himself,  had  felt  quite  unlike  his 
usual  sensible  self — Dering  was  very  proud 
of  his  good  sense — since  had  come  the  news  of 
this  wonderful,  this  fairy-gift-like  legacy. 

The  young  man  passed  out  of  the  garden, 
his  feet  stepping  from  the  soft  shell-strewn 
gravel  on  to  the  wide  pavement  which  borders 


170  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

the  Houses  of  Parliament.  He  made  his  way 
round  swiftly,  each  buoyant  step  a  challenge 
to  fate,  to  the  Members'  Entrance,  and  so 
across  the  road  to  the  gate  which  leads  into 
what  was  once  the  old  parish  churchyard  of 
Westminster.  It  was  still  too  cold  to  sit  out 
of  doors,  and  after  a  momentary  hesitation  he 
turned  into  Westminster  Abbey  by  the  great 
north  door. 

Bering  had  not  been  in  the  Abbey  since  he 
was  a  child,  and  the  spirit  of  quietude  which 
fills  the  broad  nave  and  narrow  aisles  on  early 
spring  days  soothed  his  restlessness.  But 
that,  alas!  only  for  a  moment;  as  soon  as  his 
busy  brain  began  to  realise  all  that  lay  about 
him,  he  was  filled  with  a  sincere  if  half  volun- 
tarily comic  indignation.  It  annoyed  him  to 
feel  that  this  national  heritage  was  still  a 
church;  why  could  not  Westminster  Abbey 
be  treated  as  are  the  Colosseum  in  Rome  and 
the  Pantheon  in  Paris?  And  so,  as  he  sat 
down  in  one  of  the  pews  which  roused  his  re- 
sentment, he  began  to  think  over  all  the  im- 
provements which  he  would  effect,  were  he 
given,  if  only  for  a  few  days,  a  free  hand  in 
Westminster  Abbey! 

Suddenly  he  saw,  at  right  angles  with  him- 
self, and  moving  across  the  choir,  a  group  of 


ACCORDING   TO    MEREDITH     171 

four  people,  consisting  of  a  man,  a  woman, 
and  two  children. 

The  man  was  Jack  Hinton,  the  idle,  ill-con- 
ditioned artist  neighbour  of  his  in  Bedford 
Park,  to  whom  there  had  been  more  than  one 
reference  in  his  talk  with  Wingfield;  the  chil- 
dren were  Agatha  and  Mary  Hinton,  the 
motherless  girls  of  the  Danish  woman  to 
whom  Louise  had  been  so  much  devoted;  and 
the  fourth  figure  was  that  of  Louise  herself. 
His  wife's  back  was  turned  to  Dering,  but 
even  without  the  other  three  he  would  have 
known  the  tall,  graceful  figure,  if  only  by  the 
masses  of  fair,  almost  lint-white  hair,  ar- 
ranged in  low  coils  below  her  neat  hat. 

Dering  felt  no  wish  to  join  the  little  party. 
He  was  still  too  excited,  too  interested  in  his 
own  affairs,  to  care  for  making  and  hearing 
small  talk.  Still,  a  look  of  satisfaction  came 
over  his  face  as  he  watched  the  four  familiar 
figures  finally  disappear  round  a  pillar.  How 
pleased  Louise  would  be  when  he  told  her  of 
his  latest  scheme,  that  of  commissioning  the 
unfortunate  Hinton  to  paint  her  portrait! 
If  only  the  man  could  be  induced  to  work,  he 
might  really  make  something  of  his  life  after 
all.  Dering  meant  to  give  the  artist  one  hun- 
dred pounds,  and  his  heart  glowed  at  the 


172  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

thought  of  what  such  a  sum  would  mean  in 
the  untidy,  womanless  little  house  in  which 
his  wife  took  so  tender  and  kindly  an  interest. 

Dering  and  Jack  Hinton  had  never  exactly 
hit  it  off  together,  though  they  had  known  each 
other  for  many  years,  and  though  they  had 
both  married  Danish  wives.  The  one  felt  for 
the  other  the  worker's  worldly  contempt  for 
the  incorrigible  idler.  Yet,  Dering  had  been 
very  sorry  for  Hinton  at  the  time  of  poor 
Mrs.  Hinton's  death,  and  he  liked  to  think 
that  now  he  would  be  able  to  do  the  artist  a 
good  turn.  He  had  even  thought  very  seri- 
ously of  offering  to  adopt  the  youngest  Hin- 
ton child,  a  baby  now  nearly  a  year  old ;  but  a 
certain  belated  feeling  of  prudence,  of  that 
common  sense  which  often  tempers  the  wind 
to  the  reckless  enthusiast,  had  given  him 
pause. 

After  all,  he  and  Louise  might  have  chil- 
dren of  their  own,  and  then  the  position  of  this 
little  interloper  might  be  an  awkward  one. 
Louise  had  always  intensely  wished  to  have  a 
child — nay,  children — and  now,  if  it  only  de- 
pended on  him,  and  if  Nature  would  only  be 
kind,  she  should  have  her  wish.  Perhaps  that 
would  be  the  most  tangible  good  this  legacy 
would  bring  them. 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     173 

Dering  left  the  Abbey  by  the  door  which 
gives  access  to  the  Cloisters.  There  he  spent 
half  an  hour  in  pleasant  meditation  before  he 
started  home,  for  the  place  which  he  knew  to 
be  so  much  dearer  to  his  wife  than  to  himself. 
Dering  was  a  Londoner,  the  son  of  a  doctor 
who  had  practised  for  many  years  in  one  of 
the  City  parishes,  and  in  his  heart  he  had  much 
preferred  the  rooms  in  Gray's  Inn  which  had 
been  their  first  married  home  to  the  trim  little 
villa,  of  which  the  interior  had  acquired  an 
absurd  and  touching  resemblance  to  that  of  a 
Danish  homestead. 

Those  who  declare  that  the  borderlands  of 
London  lack  physiognomy  are  strangely  mis- 
taken. Each  suburban  district  has  an  individ- 
ual character  of  its  own,  and  of  none  is  this 
more  true  than  of  Bedford  Park.  Encom- 
passed by  poor  and  populous  streets,  within 
a  stone's  throw  of  what  is  still  one  of  the 
great  highways  out  of  the  town,  this  oasis, 
composed  of  villas  set  in  gardens,  has  the 
tranquil,  rather  mysterious,  charm  of  a  river 
backwater. 

The  amazing  contrast  between  the  stir  and 
unceasing  sound  of  the  broad  High  Road  and 
the  stillness  of  Lady  Rich  Road — surely  the 


174  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

man  who  laid  out  Bedford  Park  must  have 
been  a  Cromwell  enthusiast — struck  Dering 
with  a  sense  of  unwonted  pleasure.  As  he 
put  his  latchkey  in  the  front  door  he  remem- 
bered that  his  wife  had  told  him  that  their 
young  Danish  servant  was  to  have  that  day 
her  evening  out.  Well,  so  much  the  better; 
they  would  have  their  talk,  their  discussion 
concerning  their  future  plans,  without  fear  of 
eavesdropping  or  interruption. 

Various  little  signs  showed  that  Louise  was 
already  back  from  town.  Dering  went 
straight  upstairs,  and,  as  he  began  taking  off 
his  boots,  he  called  out  to  her,  though  the  door 
between  his  room  and  hers  was  shut:  "Do 
come  in  here,  for  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you!  " 
But  this  brought  no  answering  word,  and 
after  a  moment  he  heard  his  wife's  soft  foot- 
steps going  down  the  house. 

Dering  dressed  himself  with  some  care;  it 
had  always  been  one  of  his  theories  that  a  man 
should  make  himself  quite  as  formally  agree- 
able at  home  as  he  does  elsewhere,  and  he  and 
Louise  had  ever  practised,  the  one  to  the 
other,  the  minor  courtesies  of  life.  Before 
going  downstairs  he  also  tidied  his  room,  as 
far  as  was  possible  for  him  to  do  so,  and,  deli- 
cately picking  up  his  dusty  boots,  he  took  them 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     175 

down  into  the  kitchen  so  as  to  save  their  young 
servant  the  trouble. 

Then,  at  last,  he  went  through  into  the  din- 
ing-room, where  he  found  Louise  standing  by 
the  table  on  which  lay  spread  their  simple  sup- 
per. 

She  gave  him  a  quick,  questioning  glance, 
then :  "  I  saw  you  in  the  Abbey,"  she  said  in 
a  constrained,  hesitating  voice ;  "  why  did  you 
not  come  up  and  speak  to  us?  Mr.  Hinton 
was  on  his  way  to  some  office,  and  I  brought 
the  children  back  alone." 

"  If  I  had  known  that  was  going  to  be  the 
case,"  said  Dering  frankly,  "  I  should  have 
joined  you,  but  I  had  just  been  spending  an 
hour  with  Wingfield,  and — well,  I  didn't  feel 
in  the  mood  to  make  small  talk  for  Hinton! " 

He  waited  a  moment,  but  she  made  no  com- 
ment. 

Louise  had  always  been  a  silent,  listening 
woman,  and  this  had  made  her  seem,  to  eager, 
ardent  Philip,  a  singularly  restful  companion. 

He  went  on,  happily  at  first,  rather  nerv- 
ously towards  the  close  of  his  sentence, 
"Well,  everything  is  settled — even  to  my 
will.  But  I  found  Wingfield  had  to  know — 
I  mean  about  our  old  arrangement." 

"  Then  you  told  him?    I  do  not  think  you 


176  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

should  have  done  that."  Louise  spoke  very 
slowly,  and  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  asked  you  if 
I  might  do  so  before  telling  Gerda  Hinton." 

Dering  looked  at  her  deprecatingly.  He 
felt  both  surprised  and  sorry.  It  was  almost 
the  first  time  in  their  joint  lives  that  she  had 
uttered  to  him  anything  savouring  of  a  re- 
buke. 

"  Please  forgive  my  having  told  Wingfield 
without  first  consulting  you,"  he  said  at  once; 
"  but  you  see  the  absurd,  the  abominable  state 
of  the  English  law  is  such  that  in  case  of  my 
sudden  death  you  would  have  no  right  to  any 
of  this  money.  Besides,  apart  from  that  fact, 
if  I  trusted  to  my  own  small  legal  knowledge 
and  made  a  will  in  which  you  were  mentioned, 
you  would  probably  have  trouble  with  those 
odious  relations  of  mine.  So  I  simply  had  to 
tell  him." 

Dering  saw  that  the  discussion  was  begin- 
ning to  be  very  painful  and  disagreeable;  he 
felt  a  pang  of  impatient  regret  that  he  had 
spoken  to  his  wife  now,  instead  of  waiting  un- 
til she  had  had  a  thorough  change  and  holiday. 

Louise  was  still  standing  opposite  to  him, 
looking  straight  before  her  and  avoiding  his 
anxious  glances.  Suddenly  he  became  aware 
that  her  lip  was  trembling,  and  that  her  eyes 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     177 

were  full  of  tears ;  quickly  he  walked  round  to 
where  she  was  standing,  and  put  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder. 

"  I  am  sorry,  very  sorry,  that  I  had  to  tell 
Wingfield,"  he  said;  "but,  darling,  why 
should  you  mind  so  much?  He  was  quite 
sympathetic;  he  thoroughly  understood;  I 
think  I  might  even  say  that  he  thoroughly 
agrees  with  our  point  of  view;  but  I  fancy 
he  felt  rather  hurt  about  it,  and  I  couldn't 
help  wishing  that  we  had  told  him  at  the 
time." 

Der ing's  hand  travelled  from  his  wife's 
shoulder  to  her  waist,  and  he  held  her  to  him, 
unresisting  but  strangely  passive,  as  he 
added : 

"  You  can  guess,  my  dearest,  what  Wing- 
field,  in  his  character  of  solicitor,  advises  us 
to  do?  Of  course,  in  a  sense  it  will  be  a  fall 
from  grace, — but,  after  all,  we  shan't  love  one 
another  the  less  because  we  have  been  to  a  reg- 
istry office,  or  spent  a  quarter  of  an  hour  in 
a  church!  I  do  think  that  we  should  follow 
his  advice.  He  will  let  me  know  to-morrow 
what  formalities  have  to  be  fulfilled  to  carry 
the  thing  through,  and  then,  dear  heart,  we 
will  go  off  for  a  second  honeymoon.  Some- 
times I  wonder  if  you  realise  what  this  money 


178  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

means  to  us  both — I  mean  in  the  way  of  free- 
dom and  of  added  joy." 

But  Louise  still  turned  from  him,  and,  as 
she  disengaged  herself  from  the  strong  encir- 
cling arm,  he  could  see  the  slow,  reluctant  tears 
rolling  down  her  cheek. 

Dering  felt  keenly  distressed.  The  long 
strain,  the  gallantly  endured  poverty,  the  con- 
stant anxiety,  had  evidently  told  on  his  wife 
more  than  he  had  known. 

"  Don't  let's  talk  about  it  any  more ! "  he 
exclaimed.  "  There's  no  hurry  about  it  now, 
after  all." 

"  I  would  rather  talk  about  it  now,  Philip. 
I  don't — I  don't  at  all  understand  what  you 
mean.  It  is  surely  too  late  for  us  now  to  talk 
of  marriage.  The  time  remaining  to  us  is  too 
short  to  make  it  worth  while." 

Dering  looked  at  her  bewildered.  Well  as 
she  spoke  the  language,  she  had  remained  very 
ignorant  of  England  and  of  English  law. 

"  I  will  try  and  explain  to  you,"  he  said 
gently,  "why  Wingfield  has  made  it  quite 
clear  to  me  that  we  shall  have  to  go  through 
some  kind  of  a  legal  ceremony " 

"But  there  are  so  few  months,"  she  re- 
peated, and  he  felt  her  trembling;  "it  is  not 
as  if  you  were  likely  to  die  before  September; 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH    179 

besides,  if  you  were  to  do  so,  I  should  not  care 
about  the  money." 

For  the  first  time  a  glimmer  of  what  she 
meant,  of  what  she  was  thinking,  came  into 
Dering's  mind.  He  felt  strongly  moved  and 
deeply  touched.  This,  then,  was  why  she  had 
seemed  so  preoccupied,  so  unlike  herself,  of 
late. 

"  My  darling,  surely  you  do  not  imagine — 
that  I  am  thinking  ...  of  leaving  you? " 

"  No,"  and  for  the  first  time  Louise,  as  she 
uttered  the  word,  looked  up  straight  into  Der- 
ing's face.  "  No,  it  was  not  of  you  that  I  was 
thinking — but  of  myself.  .  .  ." 

"  Let  us  sit  down."  Dering's  voice  was  so 
changed,  so  uneager,  so  cold,  that  Louise,  for 
the  first  time  during  their  long  partnership, 
felt  as  if  she  was  with  a  stranger.  "  I  want 
to  thoroughly  understand  your  point  of  view. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  when  we  first  ar- 
ranged matters  you  intended  our — our  mar- 
riage to  be,  in  any  case,  only  a  temporary 
union? " 

He  waited  for  an  answer,  looking  at  her 
with  a  still  grimness,  an  unfamiliar  antagon- 
ism, that  raised  in  her  a  feeling  of  resent- 
ment, and  renewed  her  courage.  "  Please 


180  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

tell  me,"  he  said  again,  "I  think  you  owe  me 
the  truth,  and  I  really  wish  to  know." 

Then  she  spoke.  And  though  her  hands 
still  trembled,  her  voice  was  quite  steady. 

"  Yes,  Philip,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth, 
though  I  fear  you  will  not  like  to  hear  it. 
When  I  first  accepted  the  proposal  you  made 
to  me,  I  felt  convinced  that,  as  regarded  my- 
self, the  feeling  which  brought  us  together 
would  be  eternal,  but  I  as  fully  believed  that 
with  you  that  same  feeling  would  be  only  tem- 
porary. I  was  ready  to  remain  with  you  as 
long  as  you  would  have  me  do  so;  but  I  felt 
sure  that  you  would  grow  tired  of  me  some 
day,  and  I  told  myself — secretly,  of  course, 
for  I  could  not  have  insulted  you  or  myself 
by  saying  such  a  thing  to  you  then — I  told 
myself,  I  say,  that  when  that  day  came,  the 
day  of  your  weariness  of  me,  I  would  go  away, 
and  make  no  further  demand  upon  you." 

"You  really  believed  that  I  should  grow 
tired  of  you, — that  I  should  wish  to  leave 
you?" 

Dering  looked  at  her  as  a  man  might  look 
at  a  stranger  who  has  suddenly  revealed  some 
sinister  and  grotesque  peculiarity  of  appear- 
ance or  manner. 

"  Certainly  I  did  so.     How  could  I  divine 


ACCORDING   TO   MEREDITH     181 

that  you  alone  would  be  different  from  all  the 
men  of  whom  I  had  ever  heard?  Still,  I  loved 
you  so  well — ah,  Philip,  I  did  love  you  so — 
that  I  would  have  come  to  you  on  any  terms, 
as  indeed  I  did  come  on  terms  very  injurious 
to  myself.  But  what  matters  now  what  I 
then  thought?  I  see  that  I  was  wrong — you 
have  been  faithful  to  me  in  word,  thought,  and 
deed " 

"Yes,"  said  Dering  fiercely,  "by  God,  that 
is  so !  Go  on !  " 

"  I  also  have  been  faithful  to  you "  she 

hesitated.  "  Yes,  I  think  I  may  truly  say  it, 
in  thought,  word,  and  deed, " 

Dering  drew  a  long  breath,  and  she  went 
slowly  on :  "  But  I  have  realised,  and  that 
for  some  time  past,  that  the  day  would  come 
when  I  should  no  longer  wish  to  be  so — when 
I  should  wish  to  be  free.  I  have  gradually 
regained  possession  of  myself,  and,  though  I 
know  I  must  fulfil  all  my  obligations  to  you 
for  the  time  I  promised,  I  long  for  the  mo- 
ment of  release,  for  the  moment  when  I  shall 
at  last  have  the  right  to  forget,  as  much  as 
such  things  can  ever  be  forgotten,  these  ten 
years  of  my  life." 

As  she  spoke,  pronouncing  each  word 
clearly  in  the  foreign  fashion,  her  voice  gained 


182  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

a  certain  sombre  confidence,  and  a  flood  of 
awful,  hopeless  bitterness  filled  the  heart  of 
the  man  sitting  opposite  to  her. 

"And  have  you  thought,"  he  asked  in  a 
constrained  voice,  "  what  you  are  going  to  do? 
I  know  you  have  sometimes  regretted  your 
work;  do  you  intend — or  perhaps  you  have  al- 
ready applied  to  Mr.  Farningham?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  and,  unobserved  by 
him,  for  he  was  staring  down  at  the  tablecloth 
with  unseeing  eyes,  a  deep  pink  flush  made 
her  look  suddenly  girlish,  "that  will  not  be 
necessary.  I  have,  as  you  know,  regretted 
my  work,  and  of  late  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that,  things  being  as  they  were,  you 
acted  with  cruel  thoughtlessness  in  compell- 
ing me  to  give  it  all  up.  But  in  my  new  life 
there  will  be  much  for  me  to  do." 

"I  do  not  ask  you,"  he  said,  suddenly, 
hoarsely;  "I  could  not  insult  you  by  ask- 
ing .  .  ." 

"  I  do  not  think,"  she  spoke  slowly,  answer- 
ing the  look,  the  intonation,  rather  than  the 
words,  "  that  I  am  going  to  do  anything  un- 
worthy." 

But  Dering,  with  sharp  suspicion,  suddenly 
became  aware  that  she  had  changed  colour, 
and  that  from  pale  she  had  become  red.  His 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     183 

mind  glanced  quickly  over  their  compara- 
tively small  circle  of  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances— first  one,  then  another  familiar  figure 
rose,  hideously  vivid,  before  him.  He  felt 
helpless,  bewildered,  fettered. 

"Do  you  contemplate  leaving  me  for  an- 
other man?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

Again  Louise  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

'Yes,"  she  said  at  length,  "that  is  what  I 
am  going  to  do.  I  did  not  mean  to  tell  you 
now — though  I  admit  that  later,  before  the 
end,  you  would  have  had  a  right  to  know. 
The  man  to  whom  I  am  going,  and  who  is  not 
only  willing,  but  anxious,  to  make  me  his  wife, 
I  mean  his  legal  wife," — she  gave  Dering  a 
quick,  strange  look — "  has  great  need  of  me, 
far  more  so  than  you  ever  had.  My  feeling  for 
him  is  not  in  any  way  akin  to  what  was  once 
my  feeling  for  you;  that  does  not  come  twice, 
at  any  rate  to  such  a  woman  as  I  feel  myself 
to  be;  but  my  affection,  my — my  regard,  will 
be,  in  this  case,  I  believe,  more  enduring;  and, 
as  you  know,  I  dearly  love  his  children,  and 
promised  their  mother  to  take  care  of  them.'* 
While  she  spoke,  Dering,  looking  fixedly 
at  her,  seemed  to  see  a  shadowy  group  of 
shabby  forlorn  human  beings  form  itself  and 
take  up  its  stand  by  her  side — Jack  Hinton, 


184,  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

with  his  weak,  handsome  face,  and  shifty, 
pleading  eyes;  his  two  plain,  neglected-look- 
ing  girls ;  and  then,  cradled  as  he  had  so  often 
seen  it  in  Louise's  arms,  the  ugly  and  to  him 
repulsive-looking  baby. 

What  chance  had  he,  what  memories  had 
their  common  barren  past,  to  fight  this  intan- 
gible appealing  vision? 

He  raised  his  hand  and  held  it  for  a  moment 
over  his  eyes,  in  a  vain  attempt  to  shut  out 
both  that  which  he  had  evoked,  and  the  sight 
of  the  woman  whose  repudiation  of  himself 
only  seemed  to  make  more  plainly  visible  the 
bonds  which  linked  them  the  one  to  the  other. 
Then  he  turned  away,  with  a  certain  deliber- 
ation, and,  having  closed  the  door,  walked 
quickly  through  the  little  hall,  flinging  himself 
bareheaded  into  the  open  air. 

For  the  second  time  that  day  Philip  Bering 
felt  an  urgent  need  of  solitude  in  which  to 
hold  communion  with  himself.  And  yet, 
when  striding  along  the  dimly-lighted,  soli- 
tary thoroughfares,  the  stillness  about  him 
seemed  oppressive,  and  the  knowledge  that  he 
was  encompassed  by  commonplace,  contented 
folk  intolerable. 

And  so,  scarcely  knowing  where  his  feet 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     185 

were  leading  him,  he  made  his  way  at  last 
into  the  broad,  brilliantly  lighted  High  Road, 
now  full  of  glare,  of  sound,  and  of  movement, 
for  throngs  of  workers,  passing  to  and  fro, 
were  seeking  the  amusement  and  excitement 
of  the  street  after  their  long,  dull  day. 

Very  soon  Dering's  brain  became  abnor- 
mally active ;  his  busy  thoughts  took  the  shape 
of  completed  half -uttered  sentences,  and  he 
argued  with  himself,  not  so  loudly  that  those 
about  him  could  hear,  but  still  with  moving 
lips,  as  to  the  outcome  of  what  Louise  had 
told  him  that  evening. 

He  was  annoyed  to  find  that  his  thoughts 
refused  to  marshal  themselves  in  due  se- 
quence. Thus,  when  trying  to  concentrate 
his  mind  on  the  question  of  the  immediate  fu- 
ture, memories  of  Gerda  Hinton,  of  the  dead 
woman  with  whom  he  had  never  felt  in  sym- 
pathy, perhaps  because  Louise  had  been  so 
fond  of  her,  persistently  intervened,  and  re- 
fused to  be  thrust  away.  His  own  present 
intolerable  anguish  made  him,  against  his  will, 
retrospectively  understand  Gerda's  long- 
drawn-out  agony.  He  remembered,  with 
new  sharp-edged  concern  and  pity,  her  quiet 
endurance  of  those  times  of  ignoble  poverty 
brought  about  by  Hinton's  fits  of  idleness ;  he 


186  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

realised  for  the  first  time  what  must  have 
meant,  in  anguish  of  body  and  mind,  the  wo- 
man's perpetual  child  bearing,  and  the  deaths 
of  two  of  her  children,  followed  by  her  own 
within  a  fortnight  of  her  last  baby's  birth. 

Then,  with  sudden  irritation,  he  asked  him- 
self why  he,  Philip  Dering,  should  waste  his 
short  time  for  thought  in  sorrowing  over  this 
poor  dead  woman?  And,  in  swift  answer, 
there  came  to  him  the  knowledge  why  this 
sad  drab  ghost  had  thus  thrust  herself  upon 
him  to-night — 

A  feeling  of  furious  anger,  of  revolt 
against  the  very  existence  of  Jack  Hinton, 
swept  over  him.  So  base,  so  treacherous,  so 
selfish  a  creature  fulfilled  no  useful  purpose  in 
the  universe.  Men  hung  murderers;  and  was 
Hinton,  who  had  done  his  wife  to  death  with 
refinement  of  cruelty,  to  go  free — free  to  mur- 
der, in  the  same  slow  way,  another  woman, 
and  one  who  actually  belonged  to  Dering's 
own  self? 

He  now  recognised,  with  bewilderment, 
that  had  Louise  become  his  legal  wife  ten 
years  ago,  the  thought  of  what  she  proposed 
to  do  would  never  have  even  crossed  her  mind. 

The  conviction  that  Hinton  was  not  fit  to 
live  soon  formed  itself  into  a  stable  back- 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH    187 

ground  to  all  Dering's  subsequent  thoughts, 
to  his  short  hesitations,  and  to  his  final  deter- 
mination. 

After  a  while  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and 
found,  with  some  surprise,  that  he  had  been 
walking  up  and  down  for  over  an  hour;  he 
also  became  aware,  for  the  first  time,  that  his 
bare,  hatless  head  provoked  now  and  again 
good-natured  comment  from  those  among 
whom  he  was  walking. 

He  turned  into  a  side-street,  and  taking 
from  his  pocket  a  small  notebook,  wrote  the 
few  lines  which  later  played  an  important 
part  in  determining,  to  the  satisfaction  of  his 
friends,  the  fact  that  he  was,  when  writing 
them,  most  probably  of  unsound  mind. 

What  Dering  wrote  down  in  his  pocket- 
book  ran  as  follows: 


1.  I  buy  a  hat  at  Dunn's,  if  Dunn  be  slill  open 
(which  is  probable). 

2.  I    call   on   the   doctor   who   was   so   kind   to   the 
Hintons  last  year  and  settle  his  account.     It  is  doubt- 
ful if  Hinton  ever  paid  him — in  fact,  there  can  be  no 
doubt   that   Hinton   did   not   pay   him.      I   there  make 
my  will  and  inform  the  doctor  that  he  will  certainly 
be  wanted  shortly  at  Number  8,  Lady  Rich  Road. 

3.  I  buy  that  revolver  (if  guaranteed  in  perfect  work- 
ing order)   which  I  have  so  frequently  noticed  in  the 
pawnbroker's  window,  and  I  give  him  five  shillings  for 


188  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

showing  me   how  to  manage   it.      Mem.  Remember   to 
make  him  load  it,  so  that  there  may  be  no  mistake. 

4.  I  wire  to  Wingfield.     This  is  important.     It  may 
save  Louise  a  shock. 

5.  I  go  to  Hinton's  place,  and  if  the  children  are 
already  in  bed  I  lock  the  door,  and  quietly  kill  him 
and  then  kill  myself.     If  the  children  are  still  up,  I 
must,  of  course,  wait  a  while.    In  any  case  the  business 
will  be  well  over  before  the  doctor  can  arrive. 

Dering  shut  the  notebook  with  a  sigh  of 
relief.  The  way  now  seemed  clear  before  him, 
for  he  had  put  down  exactly  what  he  meant 
to  do,  and  in  case  of  doubt  or  forgetfulness 
he  need  only  glance  at  his  notes  to  be  set 
again  in  the  right  way. 

He  spent  a  few  moments  considering 
whether  it  was  his  duty  to  write  a  letter  to 
his  employer.  Finally  he  decided  that  there 
was  no  need  to  do  so.  They  knew  of  his 
legacy;  they  were  aware  that  he  was  leaving 
them;  and  everything,  even  now,  was  in  per- 
fect order  for  his  successor. 

As  he  walked  slowly  along  the  unlovely 
narrow  streets  which  run  parallel  to  the  High 
Road,  his  emotional  memory  brought  his  wife 
vividly  before  him.  He  began  wondering 
painfully  if  she  would  ever  understand,  if  she 
would  realise,  from  what  he  had  saved  her  by 
that  which  he  was  about  to  do.  His  knowl- 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH     189 

edge  of  her  character  made  him  feel  sure — 
and  there  was  infinite  comfort  in  the  thought 
— that  she  would  remain  silent,  that  she  would 
never  yield  to  any  foolish  impulse  to  tell 
Wingfield  the  truth.  It  was  good  to  feel  so 
sure  ftiat  his  old  friend  would  never  know  of 
his  failure,  of  his  great  and  desolate  humilia- 
tion. 

Dering  spent  the  next  hour  exactly  as  he 
had  planned;  in  fact,  at  no  point  of  the  pro- 
gramme did  his  good  fortune  desert  him. 
Thus,  even  the  doctor,  a  man  called  John- 
stone,  who  might  so  easily  have  been  out,  was 
at  home;  and,  though  actually  giving  a  little 
stag  party,  he  good-naturedly  consented  to 
leave  his  guests  for  a  few  moments,  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  the  stranger  waiting  in  the 
surgery  had  refused  to  state  his  business. 

"My  name  is  Dering.  I  think  you  must 
have  often  met  my  wife  when  you  were  at- 
tending the  late  Mrs.  Hinton.  In  fact  I've 
come  to-night  to  settle  the  Hintons'  account. 
I  fancy  it  is  still  owing? " 

Dering  spoke  with  abrupt  energy,  looking 
straight,  and  almost  with  a  frown,  as  he  spoke, 
into  the  other's  kindly  florid  face.  It  seemed 
strange,  at  that  moment  intolerably  hard,  that 


190  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

this  man,  who  looked  so  much  less  alive,  so 
much  less  intellectually  keen  than  himself, 
should  be  destined  to  find  him  within  a  few 
hours  lying  dead,  obliterated  into  nothingness. 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  account  is  still  owing,*'  Dr. 
Johnstone  spoke  with  a  certain  eagerness. 
"  Then  do  I  understand  that  you  are  acting 
for  Mr.  Hinton  in  the  matter?  The  amount 
is  exactly  ten  pounds " 

He  paused  awkwardly,  and  not  till  the  two 
bank-notes  were  actually  lying  on  his  surgery 
table  before  him  did  he  believe  in  his  good 
fortune.  The  Hintons'  account  had  long 
since  passed  into  that  class  of  doctor's  bills 
which  is  only  kept  on  the  books  with  a  view 
to  the  ultimate  sale  of  the  practice,  and  this 
last  quarter  the  young  man  had  not  even 
troubled  to  send  it  in  again. 

Johnstone  remembered  poor  Mrs.  Hinton's 
friend  very  well;  Mrs.  Dering  had  been  splen- 
did, perfectly  splendid,  as  nurse  and  com- 
forter to  the  distracted  household.  And  then 
such  a  pretty  woman,  too,  the  very  type — 
quiet,  sensible,  self-contained,  and  yet  femi- 
nine— whom  Dr.  Johnstone  admired;  he  was 
always  pleased  when  he  met  her  walking 
about  the  neighbourhood. 

This,  then,  was  her  husband?    The  doctor 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH    191 

stared  across  at  Dering  with  some  curiosity. 
Well,  he  also,  though,  of  course,  in  quite  an- 
other way,  was  uncommon  and  attractive- 
looking.  What  was  it  he  had  heard  about 
these  people  quite  lately,  in  fact,  that  very 
day?  Why,  of  course.  One  of  his  old  lady 
patients  in  Bedford  Park  had  told  him  that 
her  opposite  neighbours,  this  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Dering,  had  come  into  a  large  fortune — some- 
thing like  fifty  thousand  pounds! 

Dr.  Johnstone  looked  at  his  visitor  with  a 
sudden  accession  of  respect.  If  he  could  have 
foreseen  this  interview,  he  might  have  made 
his  account  with  Mr.  Hinton  bear  rather  more 
relation  to  the  actual  number  of  visits  he  had 
been  compelled  to  pay  to  that  unfortunate 
household.  Still,  he  reminded  himself  that 
even  ten  pounds  were  very  welcome  just  now, 
and  his  heart  warmed  to  Mr.  Hinton's  gener- 
ous friend. 

Suddenly  Dering  began  speaking:  "I 
forget  if  I  told  you  that  I  am  starting  this 
very  night  for  a  long  journey,  and  before 
doing  so  I  want  to  ask  you  to  do  me  a  fa- 
vour  " 

His  host  became  all  pleased  attention. 

"Would  you  kindly  witness  my  will?  I 
have  just  come  into  a  sum  of  money,  and — 


192  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

and,  though  my  will  is  actually  being  drawn 
up  by  a  friend,  who  is  also  a  lawyer,  I  have 
felt  uneasy " 

"  I  quite  understand.  You  have  thought  it 
wise  to  make  a  provisional  will?  Well,  that's 
a  very  sensible  thing  to  do !  We  medical  men 
see  much  trouble  caused  by  foolish  postpone- 
ment of  such  matters.  Some  men  seem  to 
think  that  making  a  will  is  tantamount  to 
signing  their  own  death-warrant !" 

But  no  answering  smile  brightened  Der- 
ing's  fiercely  set  face ;  he  did  not  seem  to  have 
heard  what  the  doctor  had  said.  "  If  I  might 
ask  you  for  a  sheet  of  notepaper.  I  see  a 
pen  and  blotting-pad  over  there " 

A  sudden,  instinctive  misgiving  crossed  the 
other's  mind. 

"This  is  rather  informal,  isn't  it?  Of 
course,  I  have  no  call  to  interfere,  Mr.  Der- 
ing;  but  if  a  large  sum  is  involved  might  it 
not  be  better  to  wait? " 

Dering  looked  up.  For  the  first  time  he 
smiled. 

"  I  don't  wish  to  make  any  mystery  about 
it,  Dr.  Johnstone.  I  am  leaving  everything 
to  my  wife,  and  after  her  to  sundry  young 
people  in  whom  we  are  both  interested.  If  I 
die  intestate,  I  understand  that  distant  rela- 


ACCORDING   TO   MEREDITH    193 

tives  of  my  own — people  whom  I  don't  like, 
and  who  have  never  done  anything  for  me — 
are  bound  to  benefit." 

Even  as  he  spoke  he  was  busy  writing  the 
words,  "  To  Louise  Larsen  (commonly 
known  as  Mrs.  Philip  Dering),  of  9,  Lady 
Rich  Road,  Bedford  Park,  and  after  her 
death  to  be  divided  equally  between  the  chil- 
dren of  my  esteemed  friend,  James  Wing- 
field,  solicitor,  of  24,  Abingdon  Street,  West- 
minster, and  the  children  of  the  late  Mrs. 
John  Hinton,  of  8,  Lady  Rich  Road,  Bed- 
ford Park." 

Short  as  was  Dering's  will,  the  last  portion 
of  it  was  written  on  the  inner  sheet  of  the 
piece  of  note  paper  bearing  the  doctor's  ad- 
dress, and  the  two  witnesses,  Johnstone  him- 
self, and  a  friend  whom  he  fetched  out  of  his 
smoking-room  for  the  purpose,  could  not  help 
seeing  what  generous  provision  the  testator 
had  made  for  the  younger  generation. 

As  the  doctor  opened  the  front  door  for 
his,  as  he  hoped,  new  friend,  Dering  sud- 
denly pulled  a  notebook  out  of  his  breast 
pocket. 

"  I  have  forgotten  a  most  important  thing 

"  there  was  real  dismay  in  his  fresh,  still 

youthful  voice — "  and  that  is  to  ask  you 


194  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

kindly  to  look  round  at  No.  8,  Lady  Rich 
Road,  after  your  friends  have  left  you  to- 
night. I  should  think  about  twelve  o'clock 
would  do  very  well.  In  fact,  Hinton  won't 
he  ready  for  you  before.  And,  Dr.  John- 
stone — in  view  of  the  trouble  to  which  you 
may  be  put "  Dering  thrust  another  bank- 
note into  the  other  man's  hand.  "  I  know 
you  ought  to  have  charged  a  lot  more  than 

that  ten  pounds "  and  then,  before  words 

of  thanks  could  be  uttered,  he  had  turned  and 
gone  down  the  steps,  along  the  little  path, 
through  the  iron  gate  which  swung  under  the 

red  lamp,  into  the  darkness  beyond. 
•  •  •  •  • 

Down  the  broad  and  now  solitary  High 
Road,  filled  with  the  strange  brooding  still- 
ness of  a  spring  dawn,  clattered  discordantly 
a  hansom  cab.  There  was  promise  of  a  bright 
warm  day,  such  a  day  as  yesterday  had  been, 
but  Wingfield,  leaning  forward,  uncon- 
sciously willing  the  horse  to  go  faster,  felt 
very  cold. 

At  last,  not  for  the  first  time  during  this 
interminable  journey,  he  took  from  his  breast 
pocket  the  unsigned  telegram  which  was  the 
cause  of  his  being  here,  driving,  oh!  how 
slowly,  along  this  fantastically  empty  thor- 


ACCORDING   TO   MEREDITH    195 

oughfare,  through  the  chill  morning  air,  in- 
stead of  lying  sound  asleep  by  Kate's  side  in 
his  comfortable  bed  at  home. 

"  Philip  Dering  is  dead  please  come  at  once 
at  once  at  once  to  eight  Lady  Rich  Road." 

Wingfield,  steadying  the  slip  of  paper  as 
it  fluttered  in  his  hand,  looked  down  with 
frowning  puzzled  eyes  at  the  pencilled  words. 

The  message  had  been  set  off  just  before 
midnight,  and  had  reached  his  house,  he  sup- 
posed, an  hour  and  a  half  later,  for  the  per- 
sistent knocking  at  his  front  door  had  gone 
on  for  some  time  before  he  or  his  wife  realised 
that  the  loud  hammering  sound  concerned 
themselves.  Even  then  it  had  been  Kate  who 
had  at  last  roused  herself  and  gone  down- 
stairs; Kate  who  had  rushed  up  breathless, 
whispering  as  she  thrust  the  orange  envelope 
into  his  hand: — "Oh,  James,  what  can  it  be? 
Thank  God,  all  the  children  are  safe  at 
home!" 

No  time  had  been  lost.  While  he  was 
dressing,  his  wife  had  made  him  a  cup  of  tea, 
kind  and  solicitous  for  his  comfort,  but  driv- 
ing him  nearly  distracted  by  her  eager,  excited 
talk  and  aimless  conjectures.  It  had  seemed 


196  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

long  before  he  found  a  derelict  cab  willing  to 
drive  him  from  Regent's  Terrace  to  Bedford 
Park,  but  now — well,  thank  God,  he  was  at 
last  nearing  the  place  where  he  would  learn 
what  had  befallen  the  man  who  had  been,  next 
to  his  own  elder  boy,  the  creature  he  had  loved 
best  in  his  calm,  phlegmatic  life. 

Wingfield  went  on  staring  down  at  the 
mysterious  and  yet  explicit  message,  of  which 
the  wording  seemed  to  him  so  odd — in  some 
ways  recalling  Der ing's  familiar  trick  of  re- 
iteration. Then  suddenly  he  thought  of  Hin- 
ton,  the  artist  for  whom  both  he  and  his  friend 
had  had  reason  to  feel  so  deep  if  wordless  a 
contempt,  and  yet  whom  they  had  both  tried, 
over  and  over  again,  to  help  and  set  on  his 
feet. 

With  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  law- 
yer folded  up  the  telegram  and  put  it  back 
into  his  breast  pocket — this  mysterious,  un- 
signed request  for  his  immediate  presence  had 
obviously  been  despatched  by  Hinton,  who 
might  just  as  well  have  waited  for  morning. 
How  stupid  of  him  not  to  have  realised  this  at 
once,  the  more  so  that  No.  8,  Lady  Rich  Road, 
was  Hinton's  address,  not  that  of  Bering. 
Quickly  he  raised  his  hand  to  the  trap-door 
above  his  head;  "  Pull  up  at  No.  8,  not  as  I 


ACCORDING  TO  MEREDITH    197 

told  you,  at  No.   9,  Lady  Rich  Road,"  he 
shouted. 

The  radiance  of  an  early  spring  morning, 
so  kind  to  everything  in  nature,  is  pitiless  to 
that  which  owes  its  being  to  the  ingenuity  and 
industry  of  human  hands.  Dr.  Johnstone, 
standing  opposite  a  police  inspector  in  what 
had  been  poor  Mrs.  Hinton's  cherished,  if  un- 
tidy and  shabby,  little  sitting-room,  felt  his 
wretchedness  and  shame — for  he  felt  very 
deeply  ashamed — perceptibly  increased  by  the 
dust-laden  sunbeams  dancing  slantwise  about 
him. 

The  inspector  was  really  sorry  for  him, 
though  a  little  contemptuous  perhaps  of  a 
medical  man  capable  of  showing  such  emotion 
and  horror  in  the  face  of  death. 

"  Why,  doctor,  you  mustn't  take  on  so ! 
How  could  you  possibly  have  told  what  was 
in  the  man's  mind?  You  weren't  upset  like 
this  last  year  over  that  business  in  Angle 
Alley,  and  that  was  a  sight  worse  than 
this,  eh? " 

But  Johnstone  had  turned  away,  and  was 
staring  out  of  the  bow  window.  "  It  isn't 
that  poor  wretch  Hinton  that's  upset  me,"  he 
muttered,  "  I  don't  mind  death.  It's— it's — 


198  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Bering — Dering  and  Mrs.  Bering."  Reluc- 
tant tears  filled  his  tired,  red-rimmed  eyes. 

"  I'm  sorry,  too.  Very  sorry  for  the  lady, 
that  is ;  as  for  the  other — well,  I'm  pretty  sure 
he'll  cheat  Broadmoor,  and  that  without  much 
delay,  eh,  doctor?  Hullo!  who's  this  coming 
now? " 

The  tone  suddenly  changed,  became  at  once 
official  and  alert  in  quality,  as  the  sound  of 
wheels  stopped  opposite  the  little  gate.  When 
the  front  door  bell  pealed  through  the  house 
he  added,  "You  go  to  the  door,  doctor; 
whoever  it  is  had  better  not  see  me  at  first." 
And  Johnstone  found  himself  suddenly 
pushed  out  of  the  room  and  into  the  little 
hall. 

There  he  hesitated  for  a  moment,  looking 
furtively  round  at  the  half -open  door  which 
led  into  the  back  room  fitted  up  as  a  studio, 
where  still  lay,  in  dreadful  juxtaposition,  the 
dead  and  the  dying,  Hinton  and  his  murderer, 
alone,  save  for  the  indifferent  yet  watchful 
presence  of  a  trained  nurse. 

From  the  kitchen  beyond  came  the  sound 
of  eager,  lowered  voices,,  those  of  the  two 
young  servants  who  had  of  late  coped  with 
the  difficulties  of  the  Hinton  household,  and 
whose  scanty  wages  had  been  paid,  so  John- 


ACCORDING  TO  MEREDITH    199 

stone  had  learned  in  the  last  hour,  by  Mrs. 
Dering  herself. 

Another  impatient  peal  of  sound  echoed 
through  the  house,  and  the  doctor,  walking 
slowly  forward,  opened  the  front  door. 

"  Can  I  see  Mr.  Hinton?  Or  is  he  next 
door?  I  have  driven  down  from  town  in  re- 
sponse to  this  telegram.  I  was  Mr.  Philip 
Dering's  oldest  friend  and  solicitor " 

"  Then — then  it  was  you  who  were  making 
his  will?" 

The  question  struck  Wingfield  as  unseemly. 
How  had  this  young  man,  whom  he  took  to  be 
one  of  Hinton's  dissipated  friends,  learnt  even 
this  one  fact  concerning  poor  Dering's  af- 
fairs? 

"Yes,"  he  said  shortly,  as  he  walked 
through  into  the  hall,  "  that  was  the  case.  But, 
of  course — well,  perhaps,  you  will  kindly  in- 
form me  where  I  can  see  Mr.  Hinton? "  he  re- 
peated impatiently.  "  I  suppose  he  is  with 
Mrs.  Dering,  at  No.  9? "  and  the  other  no- 
ticed that  he  left  the  door  open  behind  him, 
evidently  intending  to  leave  Hinton's  house 
as  soon  as  he  had  obtained  a  reply  to  his  ques- 
tion. 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  looked  at  one 
another  in  exasperated  silence.  Then,  very 


200  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

suddenly,  Johnstone  did  that  of  which  he  was 
afterward  sorry  and  self-reproachful.  But 
his  nerve  was  completely  gone;  for  hours  he 
had  been  engaged  in  what  had  proved  both  a 
terrible  and  a  futile  task,  that  of  attempting 
to  relieve  the  physical  agony  of  a  man  for 
whose  state  he  partly  held  himself  to  be  re- 
sponsible. He  wished  to  avoid,  at  any  rate 
for  the  present,  the  repetition  to  this  stranger 
of  what  had  happened  the  night  before. 

And  so,  "  Please  come  this  way,"  he  mut- 
tered hoarsely.  "  I  ought  perhaps  to  warn 
you — to  prepare  you  for  something  of  a 
shock."  And,  turning  round,  beckoning  to 
the  other  to  follow  him,  he  opened  the  door  of 
the  studio,  stepping  aside  to  allow  Wingfield 
to  pass  in  before  him. 

But  once  through  the  doorway  the  lawyer 
suddenly  recoiled  and  stopped  short,  so  dread- 
ful and  so  unexpected  was  the  sight  which  met 
his  eyes. 

What  Wingfield  saw  remained  with  him 
for  weeks,  and  even  for  months,  an  ever-pres- 
ent, torturing  vision,  full  of  mingled  horror 
and  mystery,  a  mystery  to  which  he  was  des- 
tined never  to  find  the  solution. 

Focussed  against  a  blurred  background 
made  up  of  distempered  light  green  walls,  a 


ACCORDING  TO   MEREDITH    201 

curtainless,  open  window,  and  various  plain 
deal  studio  properties  pushed  back  against 
the  wall,  lay,  stretched  out  on  some  kind  of 
low  couch  brought  forward  into  the  middle  of 
the  room,  a  rigid,  motionless  figure. 

The  lower  half  of  the  figure,  including  the 
feet,  which  rested  on  a  chair  placed  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  couch,  was  entirely  covered  by  a 
blanket;  but  the  chest  and  head,  slightly 
raised  by  pillows,  seemed  swathed  and  bound 
up  in  broad  strips  of  white  linen,  which  con- 
cealed chin  and  forehead,  hair  and  ears,  while 
the  head  was  oddly  supported  by  a  broad  band 
or  sling  fastened  with  safety-pins — Wing- 
field's  eyes  took  note  of  every  detail — to  the 
side  of  the  couch.  Under  the  blanket,  which 
was  stretched  tightly  across  the  man's  breast, 
could  be  seen  the  feeble  twitching  of  fingers, 
but  even  so,  the  only  sense  of  life  and  feeling 
seemed  to  the  onlooker  centred  in  the  eyes, 
whose  glance  Wingfield  found  himself  fear- 
ing yet  longing  to  meet. 

To  the  right  of  the  couch  a  large  Japanese 
screen  had  been  so  placed  as  to  hide  some  ob- 
ject spread  out  on  the  floor.  To  the  left, 
watching  every  movement  of  the  still,  recum- 
bent figure,  stood  a  powerful-looking  woman 
in  nursing  dress.  Wingfield's  gaze,  after 


202  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

wandering  round  the  large,  bare  room,  re- 
turned and  again  clung  to  the  sinister  immo- 
bile form  which  he  longed  to  be  told  was  that 
of  Hinton,  and  as  he  gazed  he  forced  himself 
to  feel  a  fierce  gladness  and  relief  in  the 
knowledge  that  Bering  was  dead, — that  in  his 
pocket  lay  the  telegram  which  proved  it. 

At  last,  to  gain  courage  and  to  stifle  a  hor- 
rible doubt,  he  compelled  himself  to  meet  those 
at  once  indifferent  and  appealing  eyes,  which 
seemed  to  stare  fixedly  beyond  the  group  of 
men  by  the  door;  and  suddenly  the  lawyer 
became  aware  that  just  behind  him  hurried 
whispered  words  were  being  uttered. 

"  This  gentleman  is  Mr.  Dering's  solicitor ; 
perhaps  he  will  be  able  to  throw  some  light  on 
the  whole  affair,"  and  he  felt  himself  being 
plucked  by  the  sleeve  and  gently  pulled  back 
into  the  hall. 

"It  is — isn't  it? — poor  Hinton?"  and  he 
looked  imploringly  from  one  man  to  the  other. 

"  Hinton?  "  said  the  doctor  sharply.  "  He's 
there,  sure  enough — but  you  didn't  see  him, 
for  we  put  him  under  a  sheet,  behind  that 
screen.  Your  friend  shot  him  dead  first,  and 
then  cut  his  own  throat,  but  he  didn't  set  about 
that  in  quite  the  right  way,  so  he's  alive  still, 
as  you  can  see." 


ACCORDING  TO  MEREDITH    203 

Wingfield  drew  a  long  breath  of  something 
like  relief.  The  torturing  suspense  of  the  last 
few  moments  was  at  an  end. 

"  And  where  is  Mrs.  Dering? "  he  spoke  in 
a  quiet,  mechanical  voice;  and  Johnstone  felt 
angered  by  his  callousness. 

:<  We've  just  sent  her  back  into  the  next 
house,"  he  answered  curtly,  "  and  made  her 
take  the  Hinton  children  with  her.  For — 
well,  it  often  is  so  in  such  cases,  you  know — 
the  presence  of  his  wife  seems  positively  to 
distress  Mr.  Dering;  besides,  the  nurse  and  I 
can  do,  and^have  done,  all  that  is  possible." 

"And  have  you  no  clue  to  what  has  hap- 
pened? Has  Dering  been  able  to  give  no  ex- 
planation of  this — this — horrible  business?" 

Johnstone  shook  his  head.  "  Of  course  he 
can't  speak.  He  will  never  speak  again.  He 
wrote  a  few  words  to  his  wife,  but  they 
amounted  to  nothing  save  regret  that  he  had 
bungled  the  last  half  of  the  affair." 

"  And  what  do  you  yourself  think?" 

Wingfield  spoke  calmly  and  authorita- 
tively. He  had  suddenly  become  aware,  dur- 
ing the  last  few  moments,  that  he  was  talking 
to  a  medical  man. 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  think  much  about 
it;"  the  tone  was  rough  and  sore.  "Mr. 


204  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Dering  seems  to  have  come  into  a  large  sum 
of  money,  and  such  things  have  been  known  to 
upset  men's  brains  before  now." 

"  Still,  he  might  write  something  of  conse- 
quence, now  that  this  gentleman  has  come," 
interposed  the  inspector. 

But  when  Wingfield,  standing  by  that 
which  he  now  knew  was  indeed  his  friend, 
watched  the  painful,  laboured  moving  of  the 
pencil  across  the  slate  which  had  been  hur- 
riedly fetched  some  two  hours  before  from  the 
young  Hintons*  nursery,  all  he  saw,  traced 
again  and  again,  were  the  words: 

"  Look  after  Louise.  Look  after  Louise 
..."  and  then  at  last :  "I  mean  to  die,  I 
mean  to  die.  I  mean  to  die." 


V 

SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR? 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR? 


"  Yes ;  there ;  wives  be  such  a  provoking  class  of 
society,  because  though  they  be  never  right,  they  be 
never  more  than  half  wrong." — The  TRANTER  in  Under 
the  Greenwood  Tree. 

THE  fact  that  it  was  Mrs.  Rigby's  Silver 
Wedding  Day,  and  that  she  was  now  await- 
ing her  only  brother  who  was  to  be  the  fourth 
at  the  dinner  she  and  her  husband,  the  re- 
spected Town  Clerk  of  Market  Dalling,  were 
giving  in  honour  of  the  event,  appeared  to  her 
no  reason  why  she  should  sit  in  her  parlour 
with  hands  idle  in  her  lap.  There  was  a  large 
work-basket  on  a  table  close  to  her  elbow,  and 
with  quick,  capable  fingers  she  was  engaged 
in  mending  a  pillow-case. 

It  was  late  June,  and  Mrs.  Rigby  sat  by  the 
widely  open  French  windows  which  gave  ac- 
cess to  her  garden — one  of  those  fragrant 
walled  gardens  which  still  embellish  the  rear 
of  the  High  Street  in  a  very  typically  English 
market  town. 

Now  and  again  the  work  would  drop  be- 

207 


208          STUDIES  IN  WIVE'S 

tween  her  hands,  and  lie  unheeded  on  her 
knee,  while  she  looked  out,  focussing  her  dark, 
bright  eyes  on  the  distant  figure  of  a  woman 
who  sat  in  a  summer-house  situated  at  the  ex- 
treme end  of  the  garden;  and  as  Mrs.  Rigby 
gazed  thoughtfully  at  this,  her  other  wedding 
guest,  her  whole  face  would  soften — so  might  a 
mother  look  at  a  daughter  whom  instinct 
prompted  her  to  love,  and  reason  to  condemn 
as  foolish. 

And  yet  the  sitting  figure  was  that  of  a  con- 
temporary of  Mrs.  Rigby,  being,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  a  certain  Matilda  Wellow,  who  had 
been  her  bridesmaid  twenty-five  years  ago  to- 
day, and  who  was  now,  in  more  than  one  sense 
of  the  term,  the  most  substantial  spinster  of 
Market  Bailing. 

The  sound  of  the  door  behind  her  quietly 
opening  and  shutting  made  Mrs.  Rigby  turn 
round,  and  a  moment  later  she  was  looking  up 
at  a  tall,  straight,  still  young-looking  man, 
who,  clad  in  evening  dress,  stood  smiling  down 
at  her.  He  was  David  Banfield,  her  half- 
brother. 

"  Why,  you've  put  on  all  your  war-paint! " 
she  exclaimed  in  half-pretended  dismay. 
"  Didn't  you  know  that  there  was  only  Ma- 
tilda Wellow  coming? " 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?    209 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  thought  anything 
about  it,"  he  answered,  more  gaily  than  his  sis- 
ter was  now  in  the  habit  of  hearing  him  speak. 
"  I  dressed  out  of  compliment  to  you,  Kate, 
and  because — well,  I've  got  into  the  way  of  it 
lately.  But  pray  don't  let  Matt  think  that  he 
must  needs  follow  my  example ! " 

Then  he  sat  down  by  Mrs.  Rigby,  and  gazed 
out  with  quick,  sensitive  appreciation  at  the 
old  walled  garden. 

"  You're  a  wonderful  gardener,  Kate,"  he 
said  suddenly. 

"  There's  a  lot  of  nonsense  talked  now  about 
gardening,"  she  said  drily.  "  With  the  grand 
ladies  you  see  such  a  lot  of,  Dave,  it's  just  a 
passing  fad." 

Her  brother  made  no  answer;  he  looked 
(down  at  her  with  uncritical  and  yet  dissatisfied 
[eyes.  She  was  a  handsome  woman,  and  even 
now  only  forty-six,  and  yet  she  managed  to 
convey  an  impression  of  age.  This  was  partly 
owing  to  her  unsuitable  dress,  for  Mrs.  Rigby 
was  wearing  a  dark  blue  silk  gown,  chosen,  not 
only  to  grace  her  silver  wedding  day,  but  also 
with  a  view  to  being  her  best  dress  during  the 
coming  autumn  and  winter. 

Kate  Rigby  loved  her  half-brother,  David 
Banfield,  as  only  a  childless  woman  can  love 


210  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

the  creature  to  whom  she  has  stood  for  long 
years  in  the  place  of  mother.  David  was 
twelve  years  younger  than  herself,  and,  with 
one  exception,  he  had  never  caused  her  a  mo- 
ment's real  unhappiness  or  unease.  The  ex- 
ception, however,  had  been  paramount,  for 
with  him  had  been  connected  Mrs.  Rigby's 
only  taste  of  sharp  pain  and  sorrow,  and, 
worse  still,  to  such  a  woman  as  herself,  of  dis- 
grace. 

The  young  man's  marriage  to  an  Irish 
singer,  which  had  taken  place  without  his  sis- 
ter's knowledge,  had  proved  disastrous.  Rosa- 
leen  Tara — to  give  her  the  stage  name  by 
which  her  charming  rendering  of  the  old  na- 
tional ballads  had  made  her  widely  known — 
had  never  liked,  or  been  suited  to,  life  as  led 
at  Market  Dalling;  and  to  make  matters 
worse,  she  was  a  Roman  Catholic. 

After  a  few  years'  unsatisfactory  married 
life,  and  the  birth  of  one  child,  a  girl,  Mrs. 
David  Banfield  had  returned,  with  her  hus- 
band's grudging  consent,  to  the  musical  stage. 
Then,  on  the  very  day  Banfield  had  been  ex- 
pecting his  wife  home  for  a  short  holiday,  there 
had  come  from  her  a  letter  telling  him  shortly, 
bluntly,  cruelly,  that  she  had  been  unfaithful 
to  her  marriage  vow,  and  that  she  hoped  he 
would  forget  her. 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      211 

Had  he  forgotten  her?  No.  It  had  only 
been  owing  to  his  sister's  urgency,  and  to  Mat- 
thew Rigby's  more  measured  advice,  that  Ban- 
field  had  at  last  consented  to  take  the  step  of 
divorcing  his  wife. 

This  step  Mrs.  Rigby  had  not  only  never 
regretted,  but — and  in  this  she  was  more  for- 
tunate than  her  husband — no  doubt  had  ever 
crossed  her  mind  of  its  having  been  the  wisest 
thing  for  her  brother's  happiness  and  peace. 
But  Matthew  Rigby,  cautious  member  of  a 
cautious  profession,  had  learned  very  early  in 
his  married  life  the  futility  of  disagreeing  with 
the  wife  with  whom  Providence  had  blessed 
him. 

Now  Banfield  lived  in  solitary  state  with  his 
little  girl,  his  household  managed  by  the  child's 
nurse,  an  old  Irishwoman,  who,  if  devoted  to 
the  child,  was  incapable  of  managing  such  a 
decorous  household  as  should  have  been  that 
of  the  Brew  House. 

Any  day,  any  hour,  Mrs.  Rigby  would  have 
bartered  her  personal  happiness  for  that  of 
her  half-brother,  and  yet  the  two  seldom  met 
— and  they  met  almost  daily — without  the  say- 
ing on  her  part  of  something  likely  either  to 
wound  or  to  annoy  him. 

"  I  suppose  Rosy  is  well?  I  thought  you 
meant  sending  the  child  in  to  see  me  to-day? " 


212  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

"  Didn't  she  come? "  A  look  of  worry  and 
anger  crossed  Banfield's  dark,  mobile  face. 
"  I  can't  think  what  prevented  it,  unless — 
well,  there's  been  rather  an  upset  at  the 
Brew  House,  and  perhaps  Mary  Scanlan 
didn't  like  to  go  out." 

"  I  heard  there  had  been  an  upset,"  observed 
his  sister  drily,  "for  baker  told  cook.  He 
said  your  housekeeper  turned  the  younger 
maid,  old  Hornby's  daughter,  out  of  the  house 
last  night,  and  that  the  girl  could  be  heard 
crying  all  down  the  street." 

Mrs.  Rigby  let  her  work  fall  unheeded  on 
the  floor;  quite  unconscious  of  her  action  she 
clasped  her  hands  tightly  together. 

"  David!  How  long  is  this  sort  of  thing  to 
go  on?  "  she  asked,  in  a  low,  tense  voice.  "  It's 
the  talk  of  the  whole  town,  and  it  can't  be  good 
for  your  child." 

"  But  what  would  you  have  me  do?  "  He 
had  hoped  that  to-day — his  sister's  silver  wed- 
ding day — his  domestic  trials  would  be  forgot- 
ten, or,  at  any  rate,  not  mentioned.  "  I  can't 
dismiss  Mary  Scanlan  now— she  must  stay  on 
till  Rosy  goes  to  school.  That  won't  be  for 
very  long,  for,  as  you  know,  I  promised  " — he 
averted  his  face  as  he  spoke — "to  send  the 
child  to  a  convent  school  as  soon  as  she  was 
twelve  years  old," 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      213 

The  idea  that  her  brother,  the  wealthy, 
highly- thought-of  brewer  of  Market  Balling, 
should  confess  himself  worsted  by  the  old  and 
ill-tempered  Irish-woman,  who,  together  with 
little  Rosy,  had  been  his  wife's — his  unfaithful 
wife's — only  legacy  to  him,  was  horrible  to  his 
sister. 

Even  now,  when  bitter,  disconnected 
thoughts  crowded  one  on  another,  Mrs.  Rigby, 
half-unconsciously,  evoked  in  her  mind  the 
strong  personality  of  the  one  human  being  who 
ever  really  "  stood  up  "  to  her.  She  had  had 
the  notion,  so  curiously  common  in  England, 
that  your  Irishwoman  is  invariably  slatternly, 
untruthful,  and  good-natured;  but  in  Mary 
Scanlan  she  had  found  a  human  being  as 
scrupulously  neat,  truthful,  and  high-minded 
as  herself,  while  at  the  same  time  far  more  ill- 
tempered,  and  equally  determined  to  have  her 
own  way. 

While  Mrs.  Rigby  was  allowing  a  flood 
of  very  bitter  thoughts  to  surge  up  round 
her,  David  Banfield  was  watching  her  face, 
and  awaiting  her  next  words  with  some  anx- 
iety. 

But  when  Kate  Rigby  at  last  spoke,  she 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  the  immediate  ques- 
tion under  discussion. 

"I  suppose,"  she  said  slowly,  "that  you 


214  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

have  never  thought,  Dave,  that  there  might  be 
a  simple  way  out  of  your  difficulties?  " 

"  You  mean  that  I  might  marry  again? 
Well,  Kate,  yes — I  have  thought  of  it.  I  sup- 
pose there's  no  man,  situated  as  I  have  been 
these  last  four  years,  but  thinks  of  a  second 
marriage  as  a  way  out;  but — but,  apart  from 
other  considerations,  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could 
bring  myself  to  do  it." 

"  And  why  not,  pray? "  asked  Mrs.  Rigby 
in  a  low  voice. 

"Well,  it's  difficult  to  explain  the  way  I 
look  at  it.  Of  course,  no  one  can  answer  for 
another,  and  yet,  Kate,  if  anything  hap- 
pened to  Matt,  I  don't  see  you  marrying 
again ?  " 

David  Banfield  was  aware  that  he  had  not 
chosen  a  very  happy  simile  with  which  to  point 
his  meaning,  and  perhaps,  in  his  heart  of 
hearts,  he  hoped  that  what  he  had  said  would 
put  an  end  to  a  painful  discussion.  But  any 
such  hope  was  destined  to  be  grievously  dis- 
appointed, for  his  sister,  with  suddenly  height- 
ened colour,  turned  on  him  very  sharply. 

"  Don't  talk  nonsense ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"I'm  an  old  woman,  and  you're  a  young 
man! "  and  she  set  back  her  vigorous,  power- 
ful shoulders. 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      215 

'  You  know  very  well  that  if  Matthew  had 
dared  to  treat  me  as  you  were  treated  by 

Rosal "  something  in  her  brother's  face 

caused  his  wife's  name  to  die  away  on  her 
lips — "  I  should  have  felt  myself  free  to  do  ex- 
actly what  suited  me  best  1  Surely,  when  you 
go  out  among  your  grand  county  friends,  you 
must  meet  nice  young  ladies  who  would  be 
only  too  pleased  to  become  Mrs.  David  Ban- 
field,  and  to  step  into  such  a  home  as  the  Brew 
House?" 

Mrs.  Rigby  looked  eagerly,  furtively,  at  her 
brother. 

The  way  in  which  he  had  been  welcomed,  to 
a  certain  extent  absorbed,  in  the  rather  dull 
county  society  round  Market  D ailing,  had 
been,  to  his  sister,  a  source  of  mingled  pride 
and  jealousy,  the  more  so  that  it  had  begun  in 
the  days  of  his  pretty  wife,  whose  modest  pro- 
fessional fame  had  preceded  her,  and  made  her 
a  welcome  addition  to  county  gatherings  and 
dinner-parties.  Then  had  come  the  great 
break  of  the  war,  and  in  South  Africa  Banfield 
had  been  naturally  thrown  with  the  landown- 
ers of  his  own  part  of  the  world. 

So  it  was  that  during  the  first  few  months 
which  had  followed  on  his  return  home,  Mrs. 
Rigby  had  fully  expected  her  brother  to  make 


216  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

another,  maybe  as  disastrous  a  matrimonial 
experiment  as  before,  and  in  a  class  which  was 
as  little  his  own  as  that  of  his  Irish  wife  had 
been. 

But  time  had  gone  on,  and  David  Banfield 
had  shown  no  disposition  to  make  a  second 
marriage,  either  in  the  county  set,  or  in  the  lit- 
tle town  world  of  Market  D  ailing,  where  the 
Rigbys  themselves  lived  and  had  their  import- 
ant being. 

"  Kate — you  don't  understand,"  he  said  at 
last,  and,  even  as  he  uttered  the  words,  they 
seemed  to  him  painfully  inadequate.  "  In 
fact,  you  never  did  understand  " — there  came 
a  sudden  touch  of  passion  into  his  voice,  and 
he  got  up  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
— "  how  I  felt — how  for  the  matter  of  that  I 
still  feel — about  Rosaleen.  But  for  the  war 
— but  for  the  getting  clear  away — I  don't 
know  what  I  should  have  done!  Once,  when 
I  was  out  there  in  a  little  out-of-the-way  sta- 
tion, I  saw  an  old  bill  with  her  name  on  it,  put 
up,  of  course,  before  I  met  her,  when  she  was 
touring  in  South  Africa.  Well,  I  can  tell  you 
one  thing — if  we  had  been  back  in  the  days 
when  a  soldier  could  get  killed  so  much  more 
easily  than  he  can  now,  you  would  never  have 
seen  me  again.  For  days  and  days  I  couldn't 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      217 

get  her  out  of  my  mind — she's  never  out  of  my 
mind  now " 

Mrs.  Rigby  was  frightened,  almost  awed, 
not  so  much  by  the  violence  of  his  feeling,  as 
by  the  outspoken  expression  of  that  feeling. 

She  got  up  and  walked  quickly  to  him. 

"  Perhaps  I  understand  more  than  you 
think,"  she  said  in  a  moved  voice,  "  but  now, 
David,  you  must  turn  your  back  on  all  that. 
For  good  or  evil,  it's  over  and  done  with,  and 
your  duty  is  to  your  child.  I  won't  say  a 
word  against  Mary  Scanlan, — I  know  she's 
been  a  faithful  servant  to  you, — but  wouldn't 
it  be  better  for  Rosy  if  you  had  someone  who 
could  look  after  the  house,  as  well  as  after  her? 
Even  you  admit  that  you  cannot  go  on  at  the 
Brew  House  as  you've  been  doing  lately.  I 
know  you  can't  feel  to  anyone  else  as  you  felt 
to — to  Rosaleen,  but  surely  it  would  be  best 
for  the  child,  to  say  nothing  of  yourself,  to 
have  some  kind,  nice  woman  about  the  place, 
instead  of  one  who's  only  a  servant  after 
all." 

"  Of  course,  it  would  be  better,"  he  said 
sombrely.  "  Don't  you  think  I  know  that  ? 
But  where  am  I  to  find  the  'nice,  kind  wo- 
man '  ?  As  for  the  girls  I  meet,  it's  out  of  the 
question." 


218  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

As  he  spoke,  he  unconsciously  glanced 
round  the  room  in  which  he  and  his  sister  were 
standing.  Mrs.  Rigby  had  not  inherited  the 
good  taste  which  had  distinguished  her  Ban- 
field  forefathers.  The  Brew  House  was  full 
of  fine  old  furniture,  furniture  which  some  of 
the  young  brewer's  "  grand "  friends  envied 
him;  but  that  which  the  Rigbys  had  gradually 
accumulated  had  the  mean  and  yet  rather  pre- 
tentious commonness  which  belonged  to  the 
period  in  which  they  had  married. 

"  There's  one  whom  you've  never  thought 
of,  but  who  often  thinks  of  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Rigby,  her  voice  sinking  to  a  whisper. 

Banfield  looked  at  his  sister  attentively. 
His  fastidious  mind  passed  in  review  the  vari- 
ous young  women  who  composed  the  little  so- 
ciety of  Market  Dalling.  He  regarded  them 
all  with  indifference,  rising  in  some  cases  to 
positive  dislike,  and  since  his  matrimonial  mis- 
fortunes he  had,  as  far  as  was  possible,  avoided 
every  kind  of  social  gathering  held  in  his  na- 
tive place. 

"  I  don't  know  whom  you  mean,"  he  said 
at  last  with  some  discomfiture.  "  In  the  old 
days  you  were  always  apt  to  fancy  that  the 
girls  were  after  me,  and  I  can't  say  that  you 
ever  gave  them  much  encouragement," — he 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      219 

added  with  a  rather  clumsy  attempt  at  play- 
fulness. 

"  The  person  I  have  in  my  mind,"  persisted 
Mrs.  Rigby,  "isn't  exactly  a  girl;  she's  just 
what  we  were  talking  about — a  nice,  kind 
woman — and  you  never  seem  to  mind  meeting 
her." 

"  Do  you — can  you  possibly  mean " 

"  — Matilda  Wellow?  Yes,  of  course  I  do. 
It's  astonishing  to  me,  it's  even  surprising  to 
Matthew,  that  you've  never  noticed  how  much 
she  likes  you.  Why,  she's  the  only  person  in 
Market  D  ailing  who  ever  takes  any  trouble 
about  little  Rosy,  or  who  ever  gives  the  child 
anything;  Rosy  always  calls  her  Auntie 
Tiddy." 

"  Matilda  Wellow?  "  he  repeated,  honestly 
bewildered.  "  Why,  of  course  I  like  her,  and 
think  well  of  her,  but  I've  never  thought  of 
her — and  don't  believe  she's  ever  thought  of 
me,  Kate — in  that  way!" 

"Don't  you?"  she  said  drily.  "There's 
none  so  blind  as  those  who  won't  see." 

Then,  prompted  by  a  shrewd  instinct,  she 
remained  quite  silent,  and  withdrew  her  anx- 
ious gaze  from  her  brother's  face. 

Only  to-day  Banfield  had  received  a  letter 
from  South  Africa  which  had  sorely  tempted 


220  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

him  to  throw  up  everything  and  make  a  home 
in  the  country  which,  perhaps  unfortunately 
for  himself,  held  none  of  the  glamour  of  the 
unknown.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the  letter  was 
now  in  his  pocket,  and  he  felt  guiltily  aware 
of  the  angry  pain  with  which  his  sister  would 
regard  the  offer,  especially  if  she  guessed  how 
tempting  was  its  effect  on  his  imagination. 

But  during  their  strange  conversation  he 
had  realised,  as  he  had  never  done  before,  that 
there  were  only  two  ways  open  to  him — either 
to  go  away  and  make  a  new  life,  or  to  attempt 
some  such  solution  of  his  troubles  as  that 
which  his  sister  had  just  proposed  to  him. 

So  it  was  that  during  those  moments  of 
tense  silence  Matilda  Wellow  assumed  in 
David  Banfield's  mind  the  importance  of  an 
only  alternative.  Perhaps  the  very  fact  that 
the  young  man  was  so  familiar  with  her  per- 
sonality, while  always  regarding  her  as  a  con- 
temporary of  his  sister,  made  it  easier  for  him 
to  come  to  a  sudden  decision. 

To  another  important  fact — never  forgot- 
ten for  a  moment  by  Mrs.  Rigby — namely, 
that  Miss  Wellow  was  the  wealthiest  spinster 
in  Market  D  ailing,  Banfield  gave  no  thought, 
and  it  certainly  played  no  part  in  his  hurried, 
anxious  self -communing. 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      221 

"  I  confess,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that  this  is  a 
new  idea  to  me — but  that's  no  reason  why  it 
should  be  a  bad  idea.  And  if  you  really  be- 
lieve that  it  would  be  better  for  Rosy,  and  that 
Miss  Wellow  would  not — "  he  hesitated  awk- 
wardly, "  think  it  strange  of  me,  I  will  do  as 
you  advise,  Kate.  But  you  must  let  me  take 
my  own  time.  Perhaps  when  she's  heard 
what  I've  got  to  say,  she  won't  feel  about  it  as 
you  believe  she's  likely  to  do.  I  cannot  pre- 
tend that  I — well,  that  I — "  his  lips  refused  to 
form  the  word — to  him  the  infinitely  sacred 
word — of  love. 

Mrs.  Rigby  was  bewildered,  awed  into  deep 
joy.  No  piece  of  good  fortune  which  could 
have  befallen  herself  would  have  given  her  so 
acute  a  feeling — it  almost  amounted  to  pain — 
of  passionate  relief,  and  David  Banfield,  dimly 
gathering  that  it  was  so,  felt  exceedingly 
moved.  Surely  it  was  worth  almost  anything 
in  the  way  of  self-sacrifice  to  have  brought 
such  a  look  to  his  sister's  face? 

They  both  moved  more  closely  to  one  an- 
other and  she,  so  chary  of  caress,  put  her  arms 
round  his  neck. 

"  I'm  quite  sure,"  she  spoke  with  a  catch  in 
her  voice,  "  quite,  quite  sure  that  you  will 
never  regret  it!  After  all,  life  does  get 


222  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

smoothed  out,  doesn't  it?  I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing about  myself  that  I've  never  told  any- 
body. Before  Matthew  came  along,  there 
was  someone  else  I  loved — loved,  maybe,  just 
as  dearly  as  you  loved  Rosaleen." 

"  I  know,"  said  her  brother,  wincing  at  the 
sound  of  his  late  wife's  name,  "  you  mean  Nat 
Bower?" 

"  Why,  how  did  you  ever  guess  that? "  she 
asked,  surprised. 

"Oh!  he  used  to  take  me  walks  when 
I  was  a  kid,  and  he  always  talked  about 
you." 

Had  Mrs.  Rigby  left  the  matter  there,  she 
would  have  been  a  wiser  woman,  but  some- 
thing prompted  her  to  draw  a  moral. 

"  And  don't  you  think  I'm  glad  now?"  she 
cried.  "  Think  of  what  that  poor  fellow  has 
become,  and  what  Matthew  is  now! " 

But  this  was  too  much  for  David  Banfield. 

"  I  don't  think  that's  fair ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  What  you  ought  to  say  is — *  Think  of  what 
that  poor  fellow  might  have  become  if  he  had 
married  me ! '  I  don't  believe  any  man  could 
have  helped  going  straight  with  you,  Kate.  If 
I'd  been  more  like  you " 

Then,  to  the  young  man's  relief,  his  brother- 
in-law,  Matthew  Rigby,  came  into  the  room, 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      223 

with  a  smile  on  his  thin  lips,  a  joke  on  his 
tongue. 

Mrs.  Rigby  went  out  into  the  garden. 
"Matilda!"  she  cried,  "  Tiddy  dear,  come 
in!  Matt  is  here.  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  a 
minute." 

But  as  the  two  women  met,  and  together 
walked  down  the  path,  the  hostess  gave  her 
guest  no  hint  of  the  good  fortune  which  lay  in 
wait  for  her — indeed,  in  spite  of,  or  perhaps 
because  of,  her  moment  of  softening,  she  was 
sharply,  almost  cruelly,  intolerant  of  Miss 
Wellow's  sentimental  references  to  that  cere- 
mony of  which  they  were  about  to  celebrate 
the  twenty-fifth  anniversary. 

And  now  the  Silver  Wedding  festivity  was 
drawing  to  a  close. 

The  dinner,  in  its  old-fashioned  way,  had 
been  really  excellent,  for  Kate  Rigby  was  a 
notable  housewife;  but  not  even  that  fact,  nor 
the  equally  excellent  champagne — for  Mat- 
thew Rigby  was  too  shrewd  a  man  to  drink 
bad  wine — had  had  the  effect  of  brightening 
the  little  party,  and  a  certain  constraint  now 
sat  on  the  four  people  who  were  linked  so 
closely  together. 

The  host,  a  man  of  equable  temperament, 


224  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

felt  faintly  uncomfortable;  as  he  looked 
from  one  to  the  other,  he  told  himself  that 
something  was  wrong. 

His  brother-in-law  was  certainly  oddly  un- 
like himself,  yet  surely  David  Banfield  was  too 
sensible,  and  by  this  time  too  well  accustomed 
to  his  sister's  ways,  to  have  taken  offence  at 
anything  she  might  have  said  concerning  the 
well-worn  subject  of  Brew  House  domestic 
difficulties.  Mrs.  Rigby  was  also  unnaturally 
silent,  and  during  the  long  course  of  the  meal 
she  uttered  none  of  the  sharp  pungent  sayings 
with  which  she  generally  enlivened  each  one  of 
her  husband's  repasts  and  which,  it  must  be 
admitted,  never  to  him  lost  their  savour.  Last, 
but  not  least,  Miss  Wellow,  whose  flowered 
muslin  gown  was  as  much  too  youthful  as  that 
of  her  hostess  was  too  old,  seemed  more  senti- 
mental and  more  foolish  than  usual. 

Mr.  Rigby  told  himself  with  much  satisfac- 
tion that  his  Kate  had  certainly  worn  better 

than  Tiddy  Wellow.  And  yet ?  Yet, 

twenty-five  years  ago,  Tiddy  had  been  such  a 
pretty  girl!  Soft  and  round,  with  dewy 
brown  eyes  and  pink  dimpled  cheeks.  She 
still  had  the  appealing,  inconsequent  manner 
which,  so  charming  in  a  girl,  is  apt  to  be  ab- 
surd in  a  woman — and  then  she  had  grown 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      225 

stout!  Mr.  Rigby  liked  a  woman  to  have  a 
neat  trim  figure — his  Kate  had  kept  hers — 
but  Tiddy.  Alas!  Tiddy  had  not  been  so  for- 
tunate. 

So  it  was  that  Mr.  Rigby  paid  poor  Miss 
Wellow  but  little  attention,  regarding  her 
with  a  curious  mixture  of  affectionate  con- 
tempt and  respect,  the  former  due  to  his 
knowledge  of  her  character,  and  the  latter  to 
his  knowledge  of  her  very  considerable  for- 
tune. 

Even  to  such  a  man  as  Matthew  Rigby, — 
that  is,  to  a  man  whose  profession  implies  the 
constant  hearing  of  family  secrets,  and  the 
coming  across  of  strange,  almost  inconceivable 
human  occurrences, — the  melancholy  domestic 
story  of  David  Banfield  remained  painfully 
vivid.  On  him  had  fallen  all  the  arrange- 
ments which  had  finally  resulted  in  the  divorce, 
and,  unlike  his  wife,  he  had  sometimes  doubted 
the  wisdom  of  what  he  and  she  had  brought 
about,  for  Banfield,  left  to  himself,  would 
never  have  severed  the  legal  tie  between  him- 
self and  the  mother  of  his  child. 

Even  now,  during  the  course  of  his  Silver 
Wedding  dinner,  Matthew  Rigby  wondered 
uneasily  whether  his  wife's  constrained  silence, 
and  his  brother-in-law's  odd,  abstracted  man- 


226  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

iner,  meant  that  any  tidings  had  been  received 
of  the  woman  who  had  now  so  completely 
passed  out  of  their  lives.  But  Mr.  Rigby  was 
compelled  to  bide  his  time.  He  knew  that 
whatever  explanation  there  was  would  be 
given  to  him  once  he  and  Kate  were  alone  to- 
gether. 

Sure  enough,  when  the  two  men  joined  the 
ladies  in  the  now  twilit  sitting-room,  the 
hostess  lost  no  time  in  unceremoniously  turn- 
ing her  brother  and  Miss  Wellow  out  into  the 
garden. 

And  then,  at  once,  Matthew  Rigby  realised 
that  something  of  real  importance  and  mo- 
ment had  indeed  occurred.  For  the  first  time 
since  the  great  day  when  her  brother's  divorce 
had  become  an  absolute  fact,  Mrs.  Rigby 
seemed  inclined  to  be  soft  and  tender  in  her 
manner  to  the  man  who,  she  would  have  been 
the  first  to  admit,  had  been  to  her  the  most 
admirable  of  husbands. 

There  are  certain  human  beings,  men  per- 
Kaps,  more  than  women,  who  use  those  they 
love  as  princes  of  old  used  their  whipping 
boys,  and  among  these  human  beings  Mrs. 
Rigby  could  certainly  have  claimed  a  high 
place.  Matthew  Rigby  was,  therefore,  the 
more  surprised,  even,  perhaps,  a  little  re- 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      227 

lieved,  when  he  noted  the  unwonted  tenderness 
with  which  she  slipped  her  arm  through  his ;  it 
couldn't  be  anything  so  very  bad  after  all ! 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  need  tell  you,  Matt, 
what  has  happened — or  what  is  just  going  to 
happen — to  our  David  and  Tiddy  Wellow? " 
and  she  nodded  her  head  significantly  towards 
the  two  figures  which  were  now  disappearing 
into  the  rustic  arbour,  which,  erected  by  Mrs. 
Rigby's  father-in-law,  some  thirty  years  ago, 
had  always  vexed  her  thrifty  soul  as  an  ex- 
travagant and  useless  addition  to  her  garden; 
just  now,  however,  she  would  have  admitted 
that  even  arbours  have  their  uses. 

"Phew I "  exclaimed  Matthew  Rigby, 

and  had  it  not  been  for  the  presence  of  his 
wife,  he  would  certainly  have  sworn  some  de- 
corous form  of  oath  to  express  his  extreme 
surprise.  His  pause  prolonged  itself,  and 
then,  with  a  certain  effort,  he  exclaimed: 
"  You're  an  even  cleverer  woman  than  I  took 
you  for,  Kate,  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal !  " 

Mrs.  Rigby  turned  and  looked  at  him  stead- 
ily. Their  heads  were  almost  on  a  level,  but 
even  she  could  guess  nothing  from  his  expres- 
sion. It  was  his  tone,  rather,  that  jarred  on 
her  very  true  contentment. 

"  Surely  you  think  it's  the  best  thing  that 


228  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

could  happen  to  him?"  she  asked,  a  note  of 
wistful  anxiety  in  her  voice.  "  Why,  you  and 
I  have  talked  it  over  dozens  of  times!  " 

"  I've  heard  you  say  that  you  thought  Ma- 
tilda Wellow  was  the  very  woman  for  him, 
time  and  again,  but — but  I  don't  think,  Kate, 
you  ever  heard  me  say  so.  Still,  I  daresay 
it's  all  right;  you  generally  know  best," — and 
the  husband  spoke  with  less  irony  than  might 
have  been  expected.  Twenty-five  years  of 
married  life  had  taught  him  that,  on  the  whole, 
his  wife  generally  did  know  best. 

"And  surely  you  think  so,  too?"  and  she 
pressed  more  closely  to  him,  "  surely,  Matt, 
you  don't  doubt  that  Matilda  Wellow  will 
make  him  a  good  wife,  and  be  kind  to  the 
child?" 

"Of  course,  I've  no  doubt  about  that,"  he 
answered  reassuringly.  "  But  still,  she's  not 
exactly  the  woman  I'd  have  chosen  for  myself, 
and,  after  all,  David  was  very  fond  of  that 
queer,  cold  little  hussy." 

Mrs.  Rigby  was  given  no  time  for  a  reply, 
for  her  brother  and  Miss  Wellow  were  coming 
slowly  towards  the  house.  She  turned  up  the 
gas  with  a  quick  movement,  and  when  they 
approached  the  window  a  glance  at  her  future 
sister-in-law's  face  was  enough.  She  saw  that 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      229 

David  had  spoken,  but  she  also  saw  that  he 
had  had  the  power — and  unconsciously  her  re- 
spect for  her  brother  grew — to  stifle  in  his 
companion  the  mingled  emotions  his  offer  of 
marriage  had  called  forth. 

Not  till  the  long  dull  evening  was  over,  not 
till  Banfield  and  Miss  Wellow  were  actually 
bidding  the  Rigbys  good-night,  did  the  young 
man  say  the  word  which  let  loose  Matilda's 
incoherent  words  of  pathetic  joy,  of  rather 
absurd  amazement,  at  the  good  fortune  which 
had  befallen  her. 

Mrs.  Rigby  bustled  out  the  two  men  into 
the  hall. 

"Matilda!  Don't  be  silly!"  she  com- 
manded. 

But  her  words  had  no  effect. 

"  It's  just  a  dream — "  gasped  Miss  Wellow, 
"just  a  dream  come  true!  I  never  thought, 
Kate,  to  be  so  happy — and  dear  little  Rosy, 
too " 

The  other  woman  checked  her  harshly. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Tiddy ! "  she  said  in  a  low, 
stern  voice;  "if  my  brother  were  a  different 
kind  of  man  he'd  make  you  remember  this  to 
your  dying  day.  You're  lowering  yourself — 
and  you're  not  raising  him.  Don't  go  behav- 
ing like  a  pullet  that's  just  laid  her  first  egg!  " 


230  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Then,  seeing  the  other's  face  redden  into  a 
painful  blush,  "  There,  there,  I  shouldn't  have 
said  that,  I  know.  But  I  can't  bear  to  see  a 
woman  cheapen  herself  to  a  man! " 

Banfield  and  his  new  betrothed  walked  arm 
in  arm  through  the  now  sleeping  town  to  the 
garden  gate  of  the  old  Georgian  house  where 
Miss  Wellow  had  now  lived  for  some  five 
years  in  solitary  spinster  state,  and  where  her 
forefathers  had  led  lives  of  agreeable,  if  mo- 
notonous, respectability  for  over  a  hundred 
years. 

When  they  reached  the  gate,  each  hesitated 
a  moment.  Miss  Wellow  longed  to  ask  him 
in,  but  like  most  maiden  ladies  possessed  of 
means,  she  had  a  tyrant,  a  Cerberus  in  the 
shape  of  a  faithful  servant  who  would  now  be 
sitting  up  waiting  sulkily  for  her  mistress's 
return.  Banfield  was  awkwardly  debating 
with  himself  whether  Matilda  expected  him  to 
kiss  her;  on  the  whole  he  thought — he  hoped 
— not. 

But  he  was  spared  the  onus  of  decision  con- 
cerning this  delicate  point;  for  suddenly  he 
felt  himself  drawn  on  one  side,  and  there,  in 
the  deep  shadow  of  the  wall,  his  companion 
threw  her  arms  about  him,  murmuring,  with  a 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      231 

catch  in  her  voice,  "  I  know  you  don't  love  me 
yet,  but — but — David,  I'll  make  you  love  me," 
and  the  face  turned  up  to  his  in  the  half  dark- 
ness was  full  of  eager  yearning. 

Feeling  a  traitor — to  himself,  to  Rosaleen, 
above  all,  to  the  poor  soul  now  leaning  on  his 
breast — Banfield  bent  and  kissed  her;  then  he 
turned  on  his  heel,  leaving  her  to  make  her 
way  as  best  she  could  up  the  trim  path  lead- 
ing to  her  front  door. 

Hardly  aware  of  what  he  was  doing,  he 
walked  away  quickly,  taking  the  opposite  di- 
rection to  that  of  the  quiet  lane  of  houses 
which  would  have  led  him  straight  home.  In- 
stead he  struck  out,  instinctively,  towards  the 
flat  open  country,  for  he  had  a  fierce,  unreason- 
ing desire  to  be  alone — far  away  from  all  hu- 
mankind. As  he  strode  along,  his  eyes  hav- 
ing become  so  fully  accustomed  to  the  dim 
light  that  he  could  see  every  detail  of  the 
white-rutted  road  gleaming  between  low 
hedges,  Banfield's  feeling  of  bewilderment, 
even  of  horror,  grew  and  grew,  making  him 
feel  physically  cold  in  the  warm,  scented 
night. 

For  the  first  time  there  swept  over  him  that 
awful  sense  of  unavailing  repentance  for  the 
word  said  which  might  so  well  have  been  left 


232  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

unsaid,  which  most  human  beings  are  fated  to 
feel  at  some  time  of  their  lives. 

Not  even  over  his  divorce  had  he  felt  so  des- 
perate a  passion  of  revolt,  for  that  act,  or  so 
he  had  believed,  was  forced  on  him  by  Rosa- 
leen  herself.  But  to-night  he  realised  that 
before  doing  what  he  had  just  done  he  had 
been  free — free  to  remain  free — and  he  now 
saw  with  a  sense  of  impotent  anger  how  delib- 
erately he  had  given  himself  into  slavery. 

As  he  strode  along,  eager  to  escape  from  the 
material  surroundings  of  his  surrender,  Ban- 
field  remembered  each  word  of  his  talk  with 
his  sister,  and  so  remembering,  he  was  amazed 
at  his  own  weak  folly. 

What  were  the  trifling  troubles  connected 
with  his  Irish  servant,  Mary  Scanlan,  com- 
pared to  those  which  lay  before  him? — to  the 
awful  knowledge  that  he  was  now  the  prisoner 
— henceforth  the  body  and  soul  prisoner — of 
Matilda  Wellow?  How  sluggish  had  been 
his  imagination  when  he  had  thought  of  the 
woman,  whose  tears  had  but  just  now  scalded 
his  lips,  as  of  a  kind,  unobtrusive  lady  house- 
keeper! He  was  now  aware  that  there  was 
another  Matilda  Wellow,  of  whom  till  to- 
night he  had  been  ignorant,  and  it  was  this 
stranger  who  was  demanding  as  a  right,  and 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      233 

indeed  had  the  right  to  demand,  that  tender- 
ness and  devotion  which  he  knew  himself  in- 
capable of  bestowing  on  any  woman  except  on 
the  elusive,  cold-natured  woman  who  had  been 
his  wife. 

And  then  a  strange  thing  happened  to 
David  Banfield. 

The  near  image  of  Matilda  Wellow  faded, 
giving  place  to  the  distant,  and  yet  in  a  spirit- 
ual and  even  physical  sense  poignantly  pres- 
ent, personality  of  Rosaleen. 

As  far  as  was  possible,  Banfield  till  to- 
night had  banished  his  wife's  image  from  his 
emotional  memory.  But  what  he  had  just 
done — that  is,  his  own  lack  of  constancy — 
had  the  odd  effect  of  making  him  feel  lowered 
to  the  level  to  which  those  about  him  regarded 
Rosaleen  as  fallen.  He  told  himself  that  now 
he  and  Rosaleen  were  quits — and  deliberately 
he  yielded  to  the  cruel  luxury  of  recollection. 

His  mind  travelled  back  to  the  early  days 
of  their  acquaintance,  to  the  pretence  at  a 
"  friendship  "  which  on  his  side  had  so  soon 
become  overwhelming  passion.  Then  had 
come  his  formal  offer  of  marriage,  and  for  a 
long  time  she  had  played  with  him,  sayirtg 
neither  yes  nor  no.  Then  for  a  while  he  had 
flung  everything  to  the  winds  in  order  to  be 


234  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

with  her — on  any  terms.  He  remembered 
with  a  pang  of  pain  the  trifling  reasons  which 
at  last  made  her  quite  suddenly  consent  to  be- 
come his  wife.  A  quarrel  with  the  manager 
of  the  concert  company  to  which  she  then  be- 
longed, followed  by  a  bad  notice  in  the  local 
paper  of  the  town  to  which  he,  David  Ban- 
field,  undeterred  by  more  than  one  half -laugh- 
ing refusal,  had  come  to  make  what  he  in- 
tended should  be  a  final  offer — these,  it 
seemed,  had  brought  Rosaleen  to  the  point  of 
decision. 

Even  now,  Banfield  never  heard  the  name 
of  that  little  Sussex  town  without  a  leap  of  the 
heart,  for  it  was  there  that  had  taken  place 
their  marriage,  the  quietest  and  least  adorned 
of  weddings,  celebrated  in  a  small,  bare  Ro- 
man Catholic  chapel,  the  incumbent  of  which, 
a  wise  old  man,  had  spoken  to  Banfield  very 
seriously,  asking  him  to  give  the  young  Irish- 
woman more  time  for  thought,  and  impress- 
ing upon  him  the  gravity  of  the  promises 
which  he,  a  Protestant,  had  consented  to  make 
concerning  their  future  married  life. 

With  regard  to  the  latter,  Banfield  had  been 
scrupulously  honourable,  going,  indeed,  out 
of  his  way  to  remind  Rosaleen  of  her  religious 
obligations,  and  at  the  time  of  the  divorce  act- 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      235 

ing,  in  the  matter  of  their  child's  future  edu- 
cation, according  to  the  spirit  rather  than  the 
letter  of  his  promise.  .  .  . 

With  bent  head  and  eyes  fixed  on  the  white 
road,  David  Banfield  insensibly  slackened  his 
steps  while  his  mind  concerned  itself  with  the 
five  years  he  and  Rosaleen  had  spent  together 
at  Market  D ailing.  They  had  been  years  of 
secret  drama,  on  his  part  of  almost  wordless 
struggle  for  some  kind  of  response  to  the  pas- 
sion which  her  mysterious  aloofness — to  so 
many  men  the  greater  part  of  a  woman's  at- 
traction— evoked  and  kept  alive  in  him. 

He  now  remembered  how  during  these 
years  there  had  been  minor  causes  of  disagree- 
ment, trifling  matters — or  so  he  had  consid- 
ered them — to  which  Rosaleen  attached  far 
more  importance  than  he  had  done. 

The  constant  criticism  and  interference  of 
his  half-sister,  the  dislike  and  jealousy  of  those 
town  folk  who  regarded  themselves  as  having 
a  right  to  the  close  friendship  and  intimacy  of 
David  Banfield's  young  wife,  these  were  the 
things — forming  such  unimportant  asides  to 
the  course  of  that  hidden  struggle — which 
Rosaleen  had  brought  forward  when  begging 
her  husband,  with  passionate  energy,  to  allow 
her  to  go  back  to  her  profession. 


236  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

But  to-night,  the  grey  fear  with  which  he 
now  regarded  his  own  future  life  at  Market 
Bailing  brought  to  David  Banfield  a  sudden 
understanding  of  what  Rosaleen  had  felt, 
caged,  as  he  had  caged  her,  in  the  little  town 
to  which  he  was  now  reluctantly  turning  his 
laggard  steps,  and  which  had  been,  till  so  few 
years  ago,  the  centre  of  his  universe. 

He  told  himself  that  had  he  had  the  cour- 
age, had  be  been  possessed  of  the  necessary 
imagination,  to  make  another  life  for  him- 
self and  for  her,  none  of  this  need  have  hap- 
pened. 

But  why  torture  himself  uselessly?  He 
and  Rosaleen  had  now  drifted  as  far  apart  as 
a  man  and  a  woman  can  drift.  What  he  had 
done  to-night  was  in  its  way  as  irrevocable  as 
what  she  on  her  side  had  done — nay  more,  the 
very  fact  that  he  had  Matilda  Wellow  so  com- 
pletely at  his  mercy  made  Banfield  feel,  as  a 
less  simple-hearted,  generous-minded  man 
would  never  have  felt,  how  impossible  it  was 
for  him  to  draw  back.  .  .  . 

While  returning  to  what  had  now  become 
his  place  of  bondage,  David  Banfield  made  a 
determined  effort  to  dam  the  mental  flood- 
gates through  which  had  run  so  strange  a 
stream  of  violent  revolt  and  emotion,  and  he 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      237 

was  so  far  rewarded  that  almost  at  once  some- 
thing occurred  which  had  the  effect  of  bracing 
him  up,  of  hardening  him  in  his  determination 
to  do  what  he  believed  to  be  right. 

As  he  walked  down  the  silent,  shuttered 
High  Street  at  the  end  of  which  stood  the 
Brew  House,  he  saw  that  his  hall  light  had 
not  been  extinguished;  and  as  he  opened  the 
front  door,  he  was  confronted  with  the  spare 
form  and  the  gaunt,  though  not  ill-visaged 
countenance  of  Mary  Scanlan,  the  elderly 
Irishwoman  who  had  for  so  long  waged  tri- 
umphant battle  with  her  master's  sister,  Mrs. 
Rigby.  Utterly  different  as  the  two  women 
were,  they  yet,  as  Banfield  sometimes  secretly 
told  himself,  not  without  a  certain  sore  amuse- 
ment, had  strong  points  of  resemblance  the 
one  with  the  other. 

Impelled  by  some  obscure  instinct  that  thus 
was  he  certain  to  be  strengthened  in  the  course 
of  action  to  which  he  had  just  pledged  himself, 
Banfield  invited  the  woman  into  the  dining- 
room,  which  had  been,  since  his  first  wife's  de- 
parture, used  by  him  as  living  and  eating  room 
in  one. 

Very  deliberately  he  lit  the  gas,  and  then 
turned  and  faced  his  housekeeper.  "  I  think 
it  right  that  you  should  be  among  the  first  to 


238  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

know,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  going  to  be  mar- 
ried again — to  Miss  Wellow." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Banfield  ex- 
pected either  a  word  of  sullen  acquiescence  or 
an  outburst  of  anger;  he  had  known  Mary 
Scanlan  in  both  moods,  but  now  she  surprised 
him  by  assuming  a  very  disconcerting  atti- 
tude. 

"  If  that's  the  case,"  she  said  slowly,  twist- 
ing and  untwisting  a  corner  of  the  black  apron 
that  she  was  wearing,  "  I  will  be  getting 
ready  little  Rosy's  clothes,  for  you  will  be 
sending  her  to  the  convent  rather  sooner,  I 
reckon,  than  you  meant  to  do.  I  make  no 
doubt  the  nuns  will  let  me  stay  there  for  a 
week  or  two  till  the  child  gets  accustomed  to 
the  place — that  is,  if  you  have  no  objection, 
Mr.  Banfield?" 

Banfield  looked  at  the  woman  in  some  per- 
plexity. 

"  But  I've  no  thought  of  sending  Rosy  to 
school  yet!"  he  exclaimed — then  added:  "Of 
course,  I  mean  to  keep  my  promise  to  her 
mother,  but — but  the  child's  a  little  thing  yet 
— too  young  to  go  to  school." 

Mary  Scanlan  was  the  only  woman  to  whom 
Banfield  ever  spoke  of  his  wife,  and  Mrs. 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      239 

Rigby  would  have  been  amazed  indeed  had  she 
known  how  often  these  allusions  and  semi-al- 
lusions were  made,  for  to  Kate,  much  as  he 
trusted  and  respected  his  sister,  Banfield  had 
never  till  that  day  bared  his  heart. 

"  I  am  going  to  ask  you,"  he  went  on,  "  to 
stay  in  my  service,  simply  to  look  after  the 
child.  I  know  well,  Mary,  how  devoted  you 
are  to  my  little  girl,  and  how  good  you've  been 
to  her.  When  Miss  Wellow  has  become — " 
he  hesitated  awkwardly,  and  then  with  a  cer- 
tain effort,  uttered  the  words  "  my  wife — she 
will,  of  course,  take  charge  of  the  house,  and 
I  suppose  she  will  bring  her  own  servants  with 
her.  I  shall  no  longer  have  any  need  for  a 
housekeeper — but  I  know  she  will  be  only  too 
glad  if  you  will  stay  on  with  Rosy." 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  do  that,  sir." 

Banfield  moved  uneasily.  Mary  Scanlan 
almost  invariably  called  him  "  Mr.  Banfield  " ; 
it  was  one  of  the  woman's  many  Irish  idiosyn- 
crasies which  irritated  his  sister. 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  stay  on  here,  sir,"  re- 
peated Mary  Scanlan  in  a  low,  hesitating 
voice.  "  I  don't  hold  with  a  man,  a  gentleman 
I  mean,  having  two  wives.  I  can't  say  a  word 
of  excuse  for  my  poor  Miss  Rosaleen — I  beg 


240  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

your  pardon,  sir,  I  mean  Mrs.  Banfield.  I 
know  she  behaved  very  wickedly  and 
strangely,  but  still  you  see,  Mr.  Banfield,  to 
my  thinking  and  according  to  my  holy  reli- 
gion, she's  the  woman  who  owns  you,  sir,  and 
no  one  else  can  ever  take  her  place." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  he  said  hastily.  "  But 
Mary,  why  don't  you  consult  your  priest?  If 
you  explain  the  circumstances  to  him,  he  may 
take  a  different  view  of  the  matter  to  what 
you  do." 

"  No,  that  he  wouldn't !  "  exclaimed  Mary 
Scanlan,  with  a  touch  of  her  old  passionate 
temper,  "  and  if  he  did,  I  shouldn't  be  said  by 
him!" 

She  hesitated,  and  then  in  a  low  tone  asked 
the  strange  question,  made  the  amazing  sug- 
gestion, "  I  suppose  you  wouldn't  be  after  see- 
ing Miss  Rosaleen,  Mr.  Banfield?  Not  if  I 
gave  you  her  address?  " 

Banfield  made  a  nervous  movement  of  re- 
coil. 

"  Mary,"  he  said  sternly,  "  you  forget  your- 
self! "  and  turning,  left  her  in  possession  of  the 
room. 

How  describe  the  days  that  followed? — 
short  days  full  of  intense  joy  and  looking  for- 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      241 

ward  to  Matilda  Wellow,  long  days  filled 
with  perplexed  misgiving  and  self-reproach  to 
David  Banfield. 

Men  and  women  of  British  birth  generally 
prefer  to  conduct  their  courtships  in  the  way 
that  best  suits  themselves,  but  those  whom 
Mrs.  Rigby  collectively  dubbed  as  "  foreign- 
ers" have  long  ago  realised  the  advantage  of 
having  so  important  an  episode  of  human  life 
as  that  of  betrothal  "  stage-managed "  by 
someone  more  experienced  in  such  matters 
than  the  two  most  interested. 

Mrs.  Rigby  had  no  kind  of  sympathy  with 
foreign  fashion,  and  in  theory  thoroughly 
disapproved  of  the  way  in  which  the  French, 
for  instance,  arrange  their  matrimonial  af- 
fairs. But  this  engagement  of  her  brother 
David  Banfield  and  of  Matilda  Wellow  was 
one  of  the  supreme  exceptions  which  prove  a 
rule,  and  so  she  stage-managed  every  en- 
trance, every  exit,  and,  to  pursue  the  analogy 
to  its  bitter  end,  every  bit  of  "  business  "  con- 
nected with  the  affair. 

Her  stern  eyes,  her  rough  tongue,  kept  the 
bride-elect  in  order,  but  her  watchful  fear  lest 
Matilda  should  get  on  David's  nerves  before 
she  became  securely  bound  to  him  for  ever  had 
one  curious  effect;  it  made  Banfield  sorry  for 


242  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

his  betrothed,  and  caused  him  to  feel  more 
kindly  to  her  than  he  would  otherwise  have 
done. 

Then  he  was  touched  and  surprised  by  Ma- 
tilda's great  loyalty  to  himself ;  he  soon  discov- 
ered that,  far  from  discussing  him  with  his 
sister,  she  often  irritated  the  latter  by  her  as- 
sumption that  already  she,  Matilda,  and  he, 
David,  had  a  joint  life  in  which  Kate  Rigby 
played  no  part.  This  angered  Mrs.  Rigby 
keenly,  and  it  is  a  pathetic  fact  that  the  only 
tears  Matilda  Wellow  shed  during  the  course 
of  her  engagement  were  caused  by  the  woman 
who  was  her  oldest  friend,  and  to  whom  she 
was  dimly  aware  that  she  owed  her  good-for- 
tune. 

Blinded  by  that  most  blinding  of  master 
passions,  jealousy,  Mrs.  Rigby  actually  came 
to  believe  that  her  brother  was  now  attached, 
in  a  far  truer  sense  than  he  had  been  to  Rosa- 
leen,  to  the  fond,  foolish  woman  who  was  so 
soon  to  become  his  wife. 

"  He's  getting  quite  silly  about  her,"  she 
observed  angrily  to  her  husband;  "  he  goes  up 
there  every  evening,  however  busy  he  may  be, 
or  however  much  I  may  want  to  have  him 
here.  And  now  he  says  he  won't  go  to  that 
good  London  tailor  for  his  wedding  clothes! 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      243 

It's  clear  he  doesn't  want  to  leave  Tiddy — 
even  for  three  days !  " 

But  Mr.  Rigby,  as  was  his  prudent  wont 
when  he  disagreed  with  his  wife,  only  looked 
at  her,  and  thoughtfully  wagged  his  head. 

"  Why  don't  you  say  something?  "  she  asked 
crossly. 

"Why  should  David  go  to  London?"  ob- 
served Mr.  Rigby  mildly.  "  He's  a  person- 
able fellow;  any  tailor  could  fit  David.  If  I 
were  you,  Kate,  I'd  let  him  be."  But  Kate, 
to  her  lasting  sorrow,  did  not  let  David  be. 

Both  her  husband  and  even  Matilda  Wellow 
herself  could  have  told  Mrs.  Rigby  that  it  was 
in  London  that  her  brother  had  spent  his 
honeymoon  with  his  wife;  but  though  she  had 
been  made  vividly  aware  of  the  circumstance 
— for  it  was  from  there  that  the  news  of  his 
hasty  marriage  had  reached  her — that  fact 
would  not  have  seemed  to  her  any  reason  why 
David  should  not  now  do  the  right  and  proper 
thing  by  his  second  bride. 

Thus  it  was  owing  to  Mrs.  Rigby  that  Ma- 
tilda was  at  last  roused  to  a  sense  of  what  was 
due  to  herself.  Banfield,  with  some  discom- 
fiture, discovered  that  Miss  Wellow  would 
take  it  ill  of  him  not  to  pay  her  the  compli- 
ment of  going  to  the  London  tailor  for  his 


244  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

wedding  clothes — "  and  then,"  had  observed 
his  sister  briskly,  "  you'll  be  able  to  bring 
Tiddy  back  something  handsome  in  the  way 
of  jewellery;  for  that's  a  thing  you  owe  not 
only  to  her,  David,  but  also  to  yourself." 

II 

David  Banfield,  just  arrived  in  London, 
stood  in  an  hotel  bedroom  overlooking  the  trees 
in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields. 

Staring  out  at  the  leafy  screen, which  seemed 
to  him  so  lacking  in  country  freshness,  there 
came  to  his  mind  poignant  memories  of  a  very 
different  room  and  a  very  different  outlook 
not  half  a  mile  away  from  where  he  stood,  for 
he  and  Rosaleen  had  spent  the  first  days  of 
their  married  life  in  one  of  those  vast  hotels 
which,  overlooking  the  Embankment  and  the 
river,  are  filled  with  light  and  air,  as  well  as 
instinct  with  a  certain  material  luxury  which 
had  pleased  his  young  wife's  taste  more  than 
his  own. 

With  a  quick  movement  he  pushed  up  the 
old-fashioned  guillotine  window  as  far  as  it 
would  go,  and  leaned  out  dangerously  far; 
then  he  drew  back  sharply,  feeling,  as  he  now 
often  felt  when  he  was  alone,  that  he  was  liv- 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      245 

ing  through  an  unreal,  a  nightmare  stage  of 
his  life,  one  which  was  bound  to  come  sooner 
or  later  to  an  abrupt  end,  but  which  now  must 
be  lived  through.  .  .  . 

With  unseeing  eyes  and  unthinking  mind  he 
walked  across  to  the  shadowed  corner  where 
had  been  placed  his  portmanteau.  Slowly, 
indifferently,  he  turned  the  key  in  the  lock 
and  raised  the  lid, — then  quickened  into  alert, 
painful  attention. 

Lying  on  the  top  of  its  neatly  folded  con- 
tents was  an  envelope  so  placed  that  it  could 
not  but  attract  his  attention,  and  on  it  was 
written — in  the  sprawling,  unformed  hand- 
writing which  was,  perhaps,  the  only  marked 
betrayal  of  Mary  Scanlan's  early  lack  of  edu- 
cation— the  one  word  "  Important." 

At  once  there  leapt  into  Banfield's  mind  the 
certain  knowledge  of  what  the  envelope  con- 
tained. If  he  opened  it,  there  most  surely 
would  he  find  his  wife  Rosaleen's  address.  It 
was  this,  then,  that  the  Irishwoman  had  in  her 
thoughts  when  she  had  asked  him  the  un- 
seemly question  to  which  he  had  given  so  short 
and  stern  an  answer. 

But  Mary  Scanlan  had  not  understood  the 
type  of  man  with  whom  she  had  to  deal. 

As  he  stood  there,  longing  with  a  terrible 


246  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

longing  to  verify  his  belief,  telling  himself, 
with  a  leap  of  the  heart,  that,  if  he  were  not 
mistaken,  then  Rosaleen  must  be  living  alone, 
for  if  this  had  not  been  so  the  old  servant 
would  never  have  thought  of  trying  to  bring 
them  together  again — the  claims  of  others, 
especially  those  of  the  woman  from  whom  he 
had  only  parted  that  morning,  became  para- 
mount. He  told  himself  that,  from  the  point 
of  view  of  those  who  loved  him,  and  whom  he 
respected,  it  was  his  duty  to  destroy  unopened 
the  envelope  lying  before  him. 

Banfield  turned  away,  and  once  more 
walked  across  to  the  window ;  and  then  his  agi- 
tation suddenly  became  puerile  in  his  eyes. 

What  the  Irishwoman  had  regarded  as  im- 
portant when  packing  his  bag  might  well  be  a 
trifling  matter,  something  wanted,  maybe,  for 
the  child.  The  uncertainty  seemed  to  steady 
his  conscience;  he  felt  that  he  must  know. 

Bending  down,  he  took  up  the  envelope ;  the 
flap  was  open,  and  out  of  it  there  slipped  into 
his  hand  a  shabby  little  card  on  which  was 
printed : 

Miss  ROSALEEN  TARA   (The  Colleen  Bawn), 
18,  Abbey  Street, 
Westminster,  S.  W. 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      247 

There  followed  for  David  Banfield  three 
days  of  agonising  struggle  and  temptation. 
All  the  feelings  and  instincts  he  had  battened 
down,  put  determinedly  from  him  for  so  long, 
sprang  into  life.  Now  that  he  knew  where  to 
find  her,  he  became  possessed  by  a  deep,  un- 
reasoning longing  to  see  Rosaleen  once  more 
— even  if  a  meeting  could  only  result  in  pain 
for  him,  in  shame  for  her. 

On  the  second  day  of  his  stay  in  London,  he 
offered  conscience  a  salve  in  the  form  of  a  fine 
ruby  ring,  which  was  despatched  to  Miss  Wei- 
low  in  lieu  of  the  letter  which  he  knew  only  too 
well  she  must  be  anxiously  awaiting. 

Had  Banfield  been  a  stronger  man  he  would 
have  left  London.  But  that,  or  so  he  told 
himself,  there  was  no  need  to  do;  and  as  the 
hours  dragged  on,  bringing  him  closer  to  the 
moment  which  must  see  his  return  to  Market 
Balling — to  Matilda  Wellow — the  fact  that 
he  and  Rosaleen  were  in  a  material  sense  so 
near  to  one  another  began  to  affect  his  im- 
agination in  strangest  and  most  poignant 
fashion. 

Walking  aimlessly  along  the  hot  airless 
streets  of  London  in  July,  he  found  himself 
ever  furtively  seeking  her.  .  .  .  Such  chance 
meetings  are  not  impossible;  they  happen 


248  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

every  day.  Why  should  such  a  thing  not 
come  to  him  as  well  as  to  another? 

And  so  in  the  summer  twilight,  not  once  but 
many  times,  some  woman's  form — slender, 
graceful,  light-footed  as  was  Rosaleen's — 
would  create  for  a  moment  the  illusion  that 
she  was  there,  close  to  him,  would  bring  the 
wild  hope  that  in  a  moment  his  hungry  heart 
would  be  satisfied,  his  conscience  cheated. 
And  then  the  woman  in  whom  he  had  seen  for 
a  moment  his  poor  lost  love,  would  turn  her 
head — and  Banfield,  cast  down  but  undis- 
mayed, would  again  pursue  his  eager,  aimless 
search. 

On  the  last  evening  of  his  stay  in  London, 
this  obsession  became  so  intense  that  Banfield 
saw  Rosaleen  in  every  woman's  shape  that 
passed  him  by.  He  grew  afraid;  and  after 
an  hour  spent  in  the  peopled  streets,  he  told 
himself  that  that  way  madness  lay. 

With  eyes  fixed  on  the  dusty  pavements,  he 
made  his  way  back  to  his  hotel,  and  sitting 
down  he  wrote  a  letter — a  kind,  cheerful  letter 
— to  Matilda  Wellow,  telling  her  that  he 
would  be  with  her  the  next  afternoon  at  five 
o'clock.  And  then,  for  the  first  time  since  he 
had  known  that  Rosaleen  was  in  London,  his 
sleep  was  restful  and  unbroken.  But  in  the 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      249 

early  morning  he  dreamed  a  curious  dream; 
Rosaleen,  the  beloved,  the  longed-for  woman, 
was  again  with  him, — elusive,  mysterious, 
teasing  as  she  had  ever  been, — and  Banfield, 
waking  in  the  early  dawn,  felt  tears  of  joy 
standing  on  his  face. 

When  he  got  up  in  the  morning,  and  faced 
the  day  which  was  to  see  him  go  back  to  Mar- 
ket Balling,  he  felt  as  must  feel  a  man  who 
sees  stretching  before  him  a  lifelong  period  of 
servitude;  but  with  that  feeling  came  the 
gloomy  belief  that  he  had  conquered  the  temp- 
tation that  had  so  beset  him,  and  this  being  so. 
he  argued  that  he  had  at  least  a  right  to  see  the 
place  where  Rosaleen  now  lived. 

Having  come  to  this  specious  understand- 
ing with  himself,  Banfield  felt  his  heart 
lighten.  He  told  himself  that  he  would  wait 
till  he  was  within  some  two  hours  of  the  time 
when  he  knew  he  must  leave  London,  and, 
having  so  decided,  he  checked  his  impatience 
by  various  devices,  packing  his  portmanteau, 
paying  his  bill,  doing  first  one  thing  and  then 
another,  till  the  moment  came  for  him  to  start 
walking  along  the  Embankment  to  Westmin- 
ster. 

When  at  last  he  reached  the  broad,  wind- 
swept space  out  of  which  he  had  been  told 


250  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

turned  Abbey  Street,  quietest  and  most  se- 
questered of  urban  backwaters,  he  lingered  for 
awhile,  suddenly  filled  with  an  obscure  fear  of 
that  for  which  he  had  so  longed — a  chance 
meeting  with  his  wife. 

After  a  few  moments  of  indecision,  he 
started  walking  slowly  down  the  middle  of  the 
street,  his  footfalls  echoing  on  the  cobble- 
stones. 

Banfield  looked  about  him  curiously.  To 
the  right  stretched  the  rough  grey  wall  of  Lon- 
don's oldest  garden,  framing  a  green  oasis 
opposite  the  row  of  small  eighteenth-century 
houses  which  stood  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  They  were  quaint,  shabby  little  dwell- 
ings, and  against  more  than  one  fanlight  was 
displayed  a  card  bearing  the  word  "  Lodg- 
ings." 

When  Banfield  came  opposite  No.  18,  he 
stopped  and  looked  up  at  the  windows  with 
beating  heart  and  the  colour  rushed  into  his 
face,  flooding  it  under  the  sunburn;  following 
a  sudden,  an  irresistible  impulse,  he  stepped  up 
on  to  the  pavement,  and  with  a  nervous  move- 
ment pulled  the  bell. 

Then  followed  what  seemed  to  him  a  long 
wait  on  the  doorstep,  but  at  last  a  thin,  fretful 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      251 

woman  came  to  the  door  and  enquired  his 
business. 

"  Does  Miss  Rosaleen  ,Tara  live  here?  Can 
I  see  her? " 

'  Yes,  she  lives  'ere  right  enough," — the 
woman  spoke  with  weary  indifference, — 
"  come  this  way." 

Banfield  paused;  he  had  never  thought  the 
access  to  Rosaleen  would  be  so  simple,  and  he 
was  bewildered  by  the  ease  with  which  this,  to 
him  so  momentous  a  step,  had  been  compassed. 

He  followed  the  woman  up  the  narrow, 
wainscoted  staircase  to  a  tiny  landing. 
"  Stop,"  he  said  almost  inaudibly,  "  I  must  tell 
you  what  to  say — you  must  not  show  me 
straight  in  to  her,  like  this." 

But  even  as  he  spoke,  there  was  another  tin- 
kle of  the  bell,  and  the  woman  began  running 
heavily  down  the  little  staircase,  leaving  him 
standing  in  front  of  the  door. 

He  knocked,  but  there  came  no  answer,  and 
at  last  he  turned  the  handle,  and  walked  into 
the  room.  It  was  empty  of  human  presence, 
and  yet  his  wife  had  stamped  something  of 
herself  on  the  shabbily  furnished  sitting-room. 
Certain  dainty  trifles  which  he  had  known  as 
hers  were  there,  and  before  him,  on  the  piano, 


252  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

was  a  music-case  which  he  himself  had  given 
her. 

The  sight  of  this,  his  own  gift,  affected  Ban- 
field  oddly,  giving  him  a  feeling  that  he  had  a 
right  to  be  there.  After  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion, he  walked  over  to  the  window,  and  looked 
out  into  the  old  Abbey  garden.  There  he 
would  wait  patiently — for  hours  if  need  be — 
till  Rosaleen  came  in. 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  there  fell  on  his  ear 
the  voice  which  he  had  so  often  heard  in 
dreams,  and  which  he  had  of  late  so  passion- 
ately longed  to  hear.  He  turned  sharply 
round,  and  noticed  for  the  first  time  that  the 
door  of  the  inner  room  was  ajar.  It  was  from 
thence  that  the  light,  indifferent  tones  floated 
impalpably  towards  him. 

"  Ah  1  but  it's  kind  of  you,  doctor,  to  come 
so  soon  after  Miss  Lonsdale  asked  you  to  see 
me!  I've  only  just  come  in,  but  I  won't  be  a 
moment — I  didn't  expect  you  yet.  Miss 
Lonsdale  will  be  in  long  before  you  leave,  I 
hope;  she's  almost  as  anxious  about  my  voice 
as  I  am — and  the  faith  she  has  in  you,  why,  it's 
something  wonderful!" 

To  Banfield,  the  words  recalled,  not  Rosa- 
leen his  wife,  but  Rosaleen  the  girl,  the  dear 
bewitching  stranger  he  had  first  known  and 


SHAMEFUL   BEHAVIOUR?      253 

wooed,  though  never  won.  Unconsciously  he 
visualised  the  speaker;  he  seemed  to  see  the 
quick,  bird-like  movements  with  which  she  was 
taking  off  her  hat  and  smoothing  her  hair  be- 
fore the  glass.  He  even  saw  her  smiling — 
smiling  as  she  used  to  smile  at  him  in  the  very 
early  days  of  their  acquaintance. 

He  knew  that  he  ought  to  cry  out — tell  her 
that  it  was  he,  her  husband,  David  Banfield, 
who  was  there,  and  not  the  stranger  whom  she 
had  apparently  been  expecting;  but  though  he 
opened  his  lips,  no  word  would  come. 

At  last  the  door  swung  open  quickly,  and 
for  a  moment  Banfield  saw  her  face,  lit  up  by 
that  touch  of  wholly  innocent  coquetry  of 
which  your  pretty  Irishwoman  seems  to  have 
the  secret. 

Then,  as  suddenly  she  realised  the  identity 
of  the  tall  man  standing  between  her  and  the 
window,  a  peculiar — to  Banfield  a  very  ter- 
rible— change  of  expression  stiffened  Rosa- 
leen's  face  into  watchful  fear  and  atten- 
tion. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "Tell  me 
quickly,  David!  Is  Rosy  ill,  or — or  dead?" 

"  Rosy? "  he  stammered.  "  She's  all  right. 
I  heard  this  morning " 

" — And  I  yesterday,"  she  breathed  quickly. 


254  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Then  she  sat  down,  and  Banfield  let  his  eyes 
rest  on  her  with  a  painful,  yearning  scrutiny. 

He  had  thought  to  find  her  altered,  coars- 
ened by  the  experience  he  believed  her  to  have 
gone  through,  but  she  had  the  same  look  of 
delicate,  rather  frigid  refinement,  which  had 
first  attracted  him.  He  noted  the  perfection 
of  her  delicate  profile,  the  determined,  well- 
shaped  mouth, — then  saw  with  a  pang  that 
there  were  a  few  threads  of  white  in  the  dark 
curly  hair  which,  with  her  bright  blue  eyes, 
had  always  been  Rosaleen's  principal  beau- 
ties ;  and  yet  she  looked  scarcely  older  than  on 
the  day  he  had  last  seen  her — that  on  which  he 
had  accompanied  her  with  a  heavy  heart  to  the 
station  at  Market  Dalling  to  see  her  off  to 
London. 

Now,  looking  at  her,  it  stabbed  him  to  re- 
member how  even  then  she  had  shown  an  al- 
most childish  joy  in  leaving  him.  She  had 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him  in 
sign  of  gratitude.  "  It's  kind  of  you  to  let  me 
go,  Dave!  "  she  had  whispered.  He  had  often 
thought  of  those  last  words,  the  last  he  had 
heard  her  speak.  Now  he  again  remembered 
them.  Alas!  alas!  why  had  he  let  her  go? 

She  sat,  looking  away  from  him,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  empty  grate. 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      255 

'  You  frightened  me,"  she  said  plaintively. 
"  Why  did  you  come  here,  David,  and  frighten 
me  like  this?  Why  have  you  come  here  at  all 
after — after  what  you  did  to  me? " 

'  What  I  did  to  you?"  he  stammered  con- 
fusedly, and  there  came  over  him  the  shamed 
fear  that  she  had  already  heard  of  his  coming 
marriage  with  Matilda  Wellow. 

"  Yes,  what  you  did  to  me — the  documents 
you  sent  me — divorce  papers  they're  called 

"  He  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  his 

wife's  eyes  were  filling,  brimming  over  with 
indignant  tears.  "  We  don't  have  those  things 
at  home — in  Ireland,  I  mean.  And  then 
reading  out  my  letter — the  mad  letter  I  sent 
you — before  a  lot  of  men!  " 

Rosaleen  had  always  possessed  the  wifely 
art  of  being  able  to  make  David  Banfield  feel 
himself  in  the  wrong,  and  now,  on  hearing  her 
last  words,  the  man  before  her  told  himself 
with  a  pang  that  he  had  indeed  acted  in  an  un- 
kind, even  an  unmanly,  fashion  to  the  fragile- 
looking  woman  who  sat  with  her  face  averted 
from  him. 

"I  thought — of  course  I  thought"— he 
plucked  up  courage  as  he  spoke — "  that  you 
wanted  to  be  free.  You  said  you  hoped  I 
should  forget  you." 


256  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

"  — And  so  I  did,"  she  said  quickly,  "  I  did 
wish  to  be  free — not  so  much  from  you,  as 
from  the  miserable,  the  stiflingly  dull  life  you 
made  me  lead  at  Market  Balling.  That's 
why  I  wrote  that  foolish — that  wicked  letter. 
I  thought  it  would  make  you  leave  me  alone. 
But,  David,"  she  made  a  restless  movement, 
"I  didn't  understand.  However,  I've  been 
well  punished." 

There  was  a  short,  strained  silence.  Then 
Rosaleen  got  up. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  ask  you  to  stay  on  much 
longer,"  she  began  nervously,  "  for  I'm  ex- 
pecting a  doctor  who  was  very  kind  to  me  once 
when  I  was  ill  before.  He's  a  friend  of  Carrie 
Lonsdale — you  remember  her,  David?  The 
truth  is,  my  voice  has  given  out,  and  I've  been 
trying  to  give  lessons,  but  Carrie  thinks  he  will 
be  able  to  make  it  come  back  again  soon." 

"  And  what  will  you  do,"  asked  Banfield  in 
a  very  low  voice,  "  if  he  fails?  " 

She  turned  and  looked  up  at  him,  her  eyes 
meeting  his  in  direct  challenge. 

"Whatever  I  do,"  she  said  proudly,  "you 
need  not  fear  that  I  shall  come  to  you  for  any 
help." 

And  then  David  Banfield  felt  shaken,  over- 
whelmed by  a  fierce  spasm  of  violent,  primi- 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      257 

tive  jealousy.  The  name  of  the  other  man 
had  never  been  forthcoming;  Rosaleen's  letter 
had  sufficed  to  win  the  undefended  suit. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said  brutally,  "  that  you 
can  always  depend  on  getting  help  from  your 
lover?" 

Rosaleen's  eyes  dropped,  her  face  flushed 
darkly  as  she  saw  the  change  which  came  over 
her  husband's  face  and  as  there  came  into  his 
voice  accents  she  had  never  heard  there. 

She  sprang  up.  "  How  dare  you  insult 
me?  You  have  no  right  to  say  such  a  thing 
to  me!  I  am  free  to  do  exactly  what  I  like 
and  to  go  to  whom  I  choose — you  yourself 
made  me  free !  " 

But  a  very  different  man  from  the  man  she 
had  believed  David  Banfield  to  be  now  stood 
before  her. 

Of  the  words  she  had  said,  the  last  alone  re- 
mained with  him.  Free?  Nay,  nay,  Rosa- 
leen  was  in  no  sense  free ;  his  whole  nature  rose 
up  and  protested  against  such  a  statement. 
There  could  be  no  question  of  choice,  for  she 
belonged  to  him,  only  to  him,  solely  to  him, 
and  that  even  if  she  had  in  a  moment  of  aber- 
ration, of  madness — his  mind  refused  to  fol- 
low the  thought  to  its  logical  conclusion — not 
even  in  the  most  secret  recess  of  his  imagina- 


258  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

tion  had  Banfield  ever  consented  to  dwell  on 
what  he  believed  had  been.  Not  till  the  last 
few  moments  had  he  seen  the  torturing  vision 
which  almost  always  haunts  the  man  who  has 
been  betrayed  by  a  beloved  woman. 

He  came  yet  closer,  and  put  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder. 

"  Rosaleen,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "  you  don't 
understand.  You  want  to  know  why  I  came 
here  to-day?  Well,  I  came  to  say  that  I  am 
thinking  of  leaving  Market  D  ailing.  I  came 
to  ask  you  if  you  are  willing  to  come  back  to 
me — to  make  a  fresh  start.  You  said  just 
now  that  it  was  Market  D  ailing  and  our  life 
there  that  you  hated — not  me.  I've  had  a 
very  good  offer  to  go  to  South  Africa,  to  Dur- 
ban, and  settle  there.  There's  even  a  house 
waiting  for  us,  and  a  convent  school  for  Rosy. 
But  whether  I  go  or  not  depends  on  you, 
Rosaleen.  If  you  are  willing  to  come  with 
us,  we'll  all  go  together — if  not,  I  mean  to 
stay  at  Market  Dalling." 

Rosaleen  remained  quite  still.  She  made 
no  effort  to  move  away  from  his  touch. 

"  Did  you  really  come  to  ask  me  to  do  that, 
David,  and  that  although  you  think  so  ill  of 
me?"  There  was  a  wondering  doubt,  a 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      259 

softer,  kindlier  note,  than  Banfield  had  ever 
heard  in  his  wife's  voice. 

He  set  his  teeth  and  lied. 

'  Yes,"  he  said,  "  that  is  why  I  came. 
Mary  Scanlan  gave  me  your  address." 

"Poor  old  Mary  I"  she  exclaimed.  "I 
suppose  everyone  at  Market  Bailing  thinks 
I'm  a  bad  woman?  Your  sister,  of  course,  al- 
ways hoped  that  I  was  a  bad  woman? " 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  half  expecting  him 
to  make  some  kind  of  denial.  But  he  re- 
mained silent.  What  answer,  what  denial 
could  he  make?  Of  course,  everyone  at  Mar- 
ket D  ailing  thought  Rosaleen  a  bad  woman. 
For  the  matter  of  that,  none  of  them  had  ever 
thought  well  of  her,  not  even  his  own  people, 
not  even  his  sister  and  her  husband  had  made 
any  attempt  to  understand  her. 

Rosaleen's  imprudent  question  made  yet 
another  matter,  one  which  Banfield  had  suc- 
ceeded for  a  few  moments  in  completely  for- 
getting, become  once  more  very  present  to 
him.  With  a  feeling  of  terrible  self-reproach 
there  rose  before  him  the  helpless  figure  of 
Matilda  Wellow. 

"  It's  not  only  you,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but  I 
myself  who  need  to  make  a  fresh  start.  I 


260  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

haven't  so  much  right  to  blame  you  as  you, 
Rosaleen,  perhaps  think — for  I  myself  did  a 
very  wrong,  a  wicked  thing " 

She  slipped  away  from  under  his  hand  and 
got  up,  facing  him. 

"  It's  absurd  for  you  to  say  that,"  she  ex- 
claimed petulantly,  "why,  you  couldn't  do 
anything  wicked,  David,  if  you  tried!  For 
the  matter  of  that,  I  never  could  see — I  never 
have  seen — why  people  are — why  people  make 

"  she  seemed  to  be  seeking  for  a  word,  a 

phrase ;  and  it  was  in  a  whisper  that  she  added 
the  words,  "  beasts  of  themselves." 

Banfield  stared  at  her,  not  understanding; 
for  the  moment  he  was  too  absorbed  in  his  own 
feelings,  in  his  own  remorse,  to  take  much  heed 
of  what  she  was  saying. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  "well,  Rosaleen,  shall 
we  both  forgive  each  other — and  make  a  fresh 
beginning? " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  hanging  her  head  as 
might  have  done  a  naughty  child.  With  a 
gesture  of  surrender,  she  held  out  her  hands. 
"I'm  ashamed  of  what  I  did,  David — and  I'll 
try  to  be  a  better  wife  to  you  than  I've  been  up 
to  now." 

Poor  Banfield!  As  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
his  heart  beat  with  suffocating  joy;  almost 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      261 

any  other  man  would  have  felt  her  words,  her 
implied  prayer  for  forgiveness,  curiously  in- 
adequate. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  peculiar,  earnest 
look,  as  if  trying  to  make  up  her  mind  to  a  cer- 
tain course,  and  then,  with  a  quick  movement, 
she  shook  herself  free  and  disappeared  into  the 
back  room. 

He  heard  the  sound  of  a  drawer  opening, 
the  fumbling  of  a  key.  A  moment  later  she 
came  back  and  thrust  a  small  packet  into  his 
hand. 

'  There,"  she  said,  "  open  that,  read  what's 
inside,  and  then  we'll  burn  it.  Thank  God, 
Rosy  will  never  know  now  the  shame  you  put 
on  her  mother.  I've  often  thought  how  you 
would  feel  reading  it,  if  I — died — before — you 
did!"  and  each  word  was  punctuated  by  an 
angry  sob. 

The  little  packet  which  Rosaleen  had  placed 
in  Banfield's  hand  was  tied  with  blue  ribbon, 
and  on  it  was  written:  "  In  case  of  my  death, 
to  be  forwarded  to  Mr.  Banfield,  The  Brew 
House,  Market  D ailing." 

It  was  Rosaleen's  fingers  which  untied  the 
knotted  ribbon  and  which  showed  him,  laid 
amid  her  little  store  of  jewellery, — he  had  no- 
ticed that  she  still  wore  her  wedding  ring, — a 


262  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

sheet  of  note-paper  on  which  was  an  attesta- 
tion, sworn  before  a  Commissioner  of  Oaths, 
that  the  letter  which  she  had  written  to  him, 
the  confession  which  had  sufficed  to  procure 
him  his  divorce,  had  been — false. 

"  But  why?  "  he  stammered.  "  Rosaleen — 
why?" 

"  Because  I  hated  the  life  you  made  me  lead 
at  Market  Bailing !  I  hate  Market  Dalling 
and  the  hateful  people  who  live  there!  You 
wouldn't  even  let  me  play  or  sing  on  Sunday. 
And  then,  your  sister  Kate!  She  never  gave 
me  a  kind  word  or  look!  D'you  think  that 
was  pleasant?  "  she  asked  fiercely, — then  more 
gently  she  added,  "  But  I'm  ashamed,  I've  al- 
ways been  ashamed  of  that  letter,  and  I'd  no 
idea,  Dave,  that  it  would  make  you  do  what  it 
did." 

The  door  behind  them  opened.  Rosaleen 
turned  around;  she  brushed  the  angry  tears 
from  her  cheeks;  there  came  over  her  tremu- 
lous mouth  a  charming,  rather  shy  smile. 

"  Doctor,"  she  said  quietly,  "  you've  just 
come  in  time  to  see  my  husband.  David,  this 
is  Dr.  Bendall,  who  was  so  kind  to  me  when  I 
was  ill." 

Banfield  held  out  his  hand.  .  .  . 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      263 


III 

It  was  the  late  afternoon  of  the  same  day, 
and  Mrs.  Rigby  was  sitting  as  she  had  sat  on 
her  silver  wedding  day,  close  to  the  window  of 
her  sitting-room,  her  busy  hands  engaged  now, 
as  then,  in  mending  house-linen.  Now,  as 
then  also,  she  was  expecting  her  brother  and 
Matilda  Wellow  to  dinner,  for  before  Banfield 
left  for  London  it  had  been  arranged  that  he 
and  his  betrothed  should  spend  that  evening 
with  the  Rigbys. 

Mrs.  Rigby  allowed  the  work  she  was  hold- 
ing to  fall  on  her  lap.  She  looked  into  her 
garden  with  a  preoccupied  air.  The  month 
which  had  elapsed  since  her  silver  wedding 
day  had  brought  with  it  great  changes  in  her 
life,  and  what  she  saw  before  her  seemed,  in  a 
sense,  symbolic  of  those  changes,  for  in  spite 
of  her  careful  watering  and  constant  attention, 
the  flower-beds,  and  above  all  the  beautiful 
herbaceous  borders  of  which  she  was  so 
proud,  were  beginning  to  look  parched  and 
withered. 

To-night  more  than  ever  Mrs.  Rigb'y  real- 
ised that  the  marriage  of  David  and  Matilda 
would  alter  her  own  life,  and  that  not  for  the 


264  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

better.  Why,  in  old  days  David  would  of 
course  have  come  in  to  see  his  sister  on  his  way 
from  the  station,  and  that  even  in  the  now  for- 
gotten time  when  Rosaleen  was  mistress  of  the 
Brew  House.  To-day  her  brother  had  evi- 
dently gone  straight  to  Matilda  Wellow.  .  .  . 

But  Mrs.  Rigby  reminded  herself  that, 
taken  as  a  whole,  her  garden  was  incomparably 
fresher  and  greener  than  were  those  of  her 
neighbours  on  either  side ;  and  as  to  David  and 
Tiddy,  she  now  told  herself,  almost  speaking 
the  words  aloud  in  her  anxiety  to  make  them 
true,  that  she  was  pleased — very  pleased — 
with  the  way  everything  was  going  on. 

Thus  she  was  glad  that  the  rather  absurd  se- 
crecy, so  insisted  on  by  her  brother,  would 
come  to  an  end  to-morrow.  Of  course  a  few 
old  friends  had  been  told  in  confidence  of  the 
engagement — but  considering  that  this  was 
so,  the  secret  had  been  very  well  kept.  It  was 
not  as  if  David  were  a  real  widower;  Mrs. 
Rigby  could  not  help  hoping  that  he  would  be 
spared  some  of  the  silly  remarks,  the  foolish 
congratulations,  which  fall  to  the  ordinary  en- 
gaged man.  It  must  be  bad  enough  for  him, 
so  the  sister  told  herself,  to  put  up  with  Tiddy's 
sentimental  raptures.  Still,  it  was  a  comfort 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      265 

to  know  that  Matilda  Wellow  was  well  aware 
that  she  was  in  luck's  way !  How  Tiddy  stud- 
ied David  in  everything — any  other  man 
would  have  been  spoilt! 

For  the  first  time,  a  smile,  not  a  very  kind 
smile,  came  over  Mrs.  Rigby's  shrewd,  rather 
hard  face. 

During  the  last  month,  Matilda  had  actu- 
ally given  up  eating  potatoes  and  butter,  be- 
cause some  fool  had  told  her  that  in  that  way 
she  might  hope  to  regain  the  youthful  slender- 
ness  of  her  figure!  As  for  David,  his  be- 
trothed's  little  attentions  evidently  touched 
him,  and  no  one  could  say  that  he  was  not  an 
attentive  lover.  Think  of  the  ring  he  had 
sent  Tiddy,  the  ruby  ring  which  had  ar- 
rived yesterday  morning,  and  which  must 
have  cost — so  Matt,  who  was  learned  in  such 
things,  declared — not  a  penny  less  than 
£501 

The  exact  date  of  the  wedding  would  prob- 
ably be  fixed  to-night,  for  it  had  been  arranged 
that  the  marriage  was  to  follow  very  soon 
after  the  announcement  of  the  engagement. 
There  was  no  reason  for  delay.  Mrs.  Rigby 
had  herself  chosen  the  3rd  of  August  as  the 
best  date,  and  she  had  little  doubt  that  she 


266          STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

would  be  able  to  persuade  Dave  and  Tiddy 
that  no  other  day  would  suit  them  so  well. 

Suddenly  her  quick  ears  caught  the  sound 
of  footsteps  treading  down  the  path  to  the 
left,  a  path  hidden  from  the  place  where  she 
was  now  sitting,  and  a  slight  frown  came  over 
her  face.  Mrs.  Rigby  liked  her  husband  to 
come  straight  in  to  her  from  the  office;  but 
lately,  he  had  taken  to  the  tiresome  habit  of 
going  out  by  the  back  way,  into  the  gar- 
den, and  then  suddenly  popping  round  on 
her. 

She  looked  out  expectantly,  but  the  sound 
of  footsteps  died  away.  It  must  have  been 
one  of  the  maids  going  down  to  the  extreme 
end  of  the  garden  in  search  of  some  kitchen 
stuff. 

Mrs.  Rigby  again  took  up  her  work  and  be- 
gan sewing  diligently.  Yes,  the  marriage 
should  take  place  quite  quietly  on  the  3rd  of 
August.  Everything  was  ready — in  fact, 
there  was  nothing  left  to  wait  for.  Even 
Tiddy's  wedding  gown  and  headgear  had 
come  home. 

David  had  showed  himself  oddly  interested 
in  this  wholly  feminine  question  of  his  bride's 
attire. 

He   had  actually  been  to  the  trouble   of 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      267 

choosing  the  material  of  which  Tiddy's  wed- 
ding gown  was  to  be  made;  a  white  and  grey 
stripe,  a  thin,  gauzy  stuff  not  nearly  substan- 
tial enough — or  so  Mrs.  Rigby  had  thought — 
for  the  purpose  to  which  it  was  destined.  And 
then  he  had  persuaded  Matilda  to  go  to  a  new 
dressmaker,  a  Frenchwoman  who  had  been 
lady's  maid  to  one  of  his  grand  county  ac- 
quaintances, and  who  had  just  set  up  for  her- 
self in  Market  D ailing.  More  wonderful 
still,  David  had  made  a  rough  drawing  from 
some  old  picture  that  had  taken  his  fancy  of 
the  hat  he  desired  Matilda  to  wear  on  her  wed- 
ding day!  It  was  a  white  hat  trimmed  with 
long  grey  feathers,  quite  unlike  Tiddy's  usual 
style.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  looking  up,  Mrs.  Rigby  felt  a 
thrill  of  something  like  superstitious  fear,  for 
there,  making  her  way  round  the  corner  from 
the  summer-house,  came,  walking  very  slowly, 
a  woman  at  once  like  and  unlike  Matilda  Wei- 
low,  clad  in  a  silvery-looking  gown  and  wear- 
ing a  white  hat  trimmed  with  long  grey 
feathers. 

As  the  figure  advanced  down  the  path,  it 
took  unmistakable  shape  and  substance;  here, 
without  a  doubt,  was  Matilda  wearing  what 
were  to  be  her  wedding  garments,  and,  as  Mrs. 


268  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Rigby  suddenly  became  aware,  a  Matilda 
quite  unlike  her  usual  homely  self ! 

Who  would  have  thought  that  simply  leav- 
ing off  potatoes  and  butter  for  a  month  would 
have  made  such  a  change  1  Or  was  that 
change  due  to  the  art  of  the  French  dress- 
maker? The  silvery-flounced  skirt  fell  in 
graceful,  billowy  folds  to  the  ground,  for  Miss 
Wellow  was  not  even  holding  up  her  gown,  as 
a  more  sensible  woman  would  have  done.  The 
muslin  kerchief  edged  with  real  lace,  outlined 
the  wearer's  still  pretty  shoulders,  and  the  hat 
— well,  the  hat  was  certainly  becoming,  espe- 
cially now  that  Tiddy's  cheeks  were  flushed — 
as  well  they  might  be,  considering  what  a  fool 
the  woman  was  making  of  herself! 

Mrs.  Rigby  felt  rather  cross  at  having  been 
so  startled ;  she  got  up,  and  walked  out  to  meet 
her  guest,  determined  not  to  be  drawn  into  any 
praise  of  the  becoming  hat  and  gown. 

"  I  hope  David  won't  keep  us  waiting 
long,"  she  said  tartly.  "  I  suppose  he  thought 
that  he  must  put  on  his  dress  suit,"  and  her 
expression  showed  clearly  that  in  the  matter 
of  overdressing  there  was  not  much  to  choose 
between  her  brother  and  the  woman  who  was 
to  become  his  wife. 

"  David  will  not  be  here  to-night,  Kate.  He 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      269 

came,  but  he  has  gone  away  again — back  to 
London." 

Miss  Wellow  spoke  in  a  low,  collected  voice, 
and  certain  little  irritating  mannerisms  with 
which  she  usually  punctuated  her  words  were 
absent.  Perhaps  it  was  the  quiet,  expression- 
less way  in  which  she  made  her  surprising 
statement  that  caused  Mrs.  Rigby,  as  she 
afterwards  averred  to  her  husband,  at  once  to 
feel  that  something  was  wrong. 

"  Gone  back  to  London? "  the  sister  re- 
peated. "Why,  whatever  has  he  done  that 
for?  What  business  took  him  back  to  Lon- 
don, to-day? "  and  she  looked  searchingly  at 
the  other's  flushed  face. 

"  Kate,"  said  Miss  Wellow,  again  speaking 
in  the  soft,  emotionless  voice  which  was  so  un- 
like her  own,  "  I  have  got  to  tell  you  something 
which  I  fear  will  upset  you — and  make  you 
very  angry  with  poor  David.  Kate — he  has 
gone  back  to  Rosaleen." 

Mrs.  Rigby  withdrew  her  eyes  quickly  from 
Matilda  Wellow's  face.  She  did  not  then 
realise  that  the  words  which  had  just  been 
spoken  would  for  ever  spoil  to  her  this  fra- 
grant, familiar  corner  of  her  garden.  All  she 
felt  now  was  a  fierce,  instinctive  wish  to  get 
under  shelter, — to  hear  whatever  shameful 


270  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

thing  had  to  be  heard  within  four  walls,— and 
so  she  put  out  her  right  hand  and  pushed  her 
visitor  before  her  into  the  sitting-room. 

Then,  keeping  her  back  to  the  window,  she 
forced  Miss  Wellow  to  turn  round. 

"  Now  tell  me  the  truth,"  she  commanded, 
"and  Tiddy — above  all,  don't  let  yourself  be 
upset,  and  don't  get  hysterical  I  I  know  what 
it  is — you  and  David  have  had  some  silly  quar- 
rel. I  saw  from  the  first  that  you  were  mak- 
ing yourself  too  cheap!  He  can't  go  back  to 
Rosaleen;  he  divorced  her — and  she's  with  an- 
other man.  Besides,  David  is  my  brother!  He 
wouldn't  dare  do  such  a  wicked  thing!  You 
have  no  right,  Tiddy,  to  accuse  him  of  such 
shameful  behaviour! "  She  spoke  with  quick, 
savage  decision. 

But  Miss  Wellow  faced  her  with  a  strange, 
untoward  courage — "  I  won't  have  you  speak 
so  of  him — of  David,  I  mean! "  she  exclaimed 
passionately,  "  you're  his  sister  and  ought  to 
take  his  part  I " 

Then  her  voice  broke,  and  with  a  touch  of 
her  old  feebleness  she  added,  "  If  you  had 
heard  him  telling  me  about  it,  even  you,  Kate, 
who  are  so  hard,  would  maybe  have  understood 
and  felt  sorry  for  him.  I  felt  very  sorry  for 
him " 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      271 

"You!" — said    Mrs.    Rigby,    with    what 
appeared  to  the  other  withering  contempt, 


"  He  put  it  very  beautifully,"  continued 
Miss  Wellow ;  her  voice  was  now  almost  inaud- 
ible, but  Mrs.  Rigby  caught  the  word  and  re- 
peated it  with  terrible  irony: 

"  Beautifully!  "  she  said,—"  beautifully! " 

Matilda  shrank  back  as  though  she  feared 
the  other  was  about  to  strike  her,  but  Mrs. 
Rigby  did  not  see  the  gesture. 

"  And  did  he  tell  you  when  he  proposes  to 

bring "  she  made  a  scarcely  perceptible 

pause  and  then  shot  out  the  words — "  his  bride 
home.  If  it's  to-morrow,  I'll  make  Matt  take 
me  away  to-night! " 

"  He's  not  going  to  bring  her  home,"  said 
Matilda,  quietly.  "  He's  never  coming  back 
himself;  they  are  going  right  away — out  of 
England." 

"  A  good  thing  too! "  said  Mrs.  Rigby. 

"He  says  that  will  be  more  respectful  to 
me;  he  has  considered  my  feelings,  Kate — he 
has  indeed." 

"Has  he?  Why "  she  suddenly  held 

up  a  warning  finger,  for  there  was  a  sound  of 
footsteps  in  the  passage;  the  sound  stopped 
outside  the  door,  and  both  women  instinctively 


272  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

held  their  breath,  united  by  a  common  fear  of 
servants'  gossip. 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  the  handle 
of  the  door  was  slowly  turned,  and  Mr.  Rigby 
came  into  the  room,  his  ruddy  colour  gone,  or 
rather  lying  in  curious  streaks  across  his  face, 
a  nervous  smile  hovering  over  his  lips. 

He  shut  the  door  behind  him  and  looked, 
with  a  world  of  interrogation  and  anxiety  in 
his  eyes,  at  his  wife. 

"  You  needn't  smile,"  she  said  sharply;  "  this 
is  no  smiling  matter!  " 

His  eyes  fell;  instinctively  he  turned  to  the 
other,  the  weaker  vessel.  But  the  reproof 
which  Mrs.  Rigby  had  just  addressed  to  her 
husband  penetrated  Miss  Wellow's  brain. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  do  look  rather  silly !  "  she  said 
nervously,  "  wearing  this  dress,  I  mean.  But, 
you  see,  knowing  that  now  I  shall  never  wear 
it,  I  thought  I  would  put  it  on  to-night." 

The  odd  collocation  of  her  words  passed  un- 
noticed ;  indeed,  Mr.  Rigby,  even  had  he  wished 
to  answer  her,  was  not  given  time  to  do  so,  for 
his  wife  had  turned  on  him  and  was  avenging 
in  his  person  the  heaped-up  wrongs  of  her  sex. 

"It's  all  your  fault,  Matt!  You  were  al- 
ways against  David  going  to  London  from  the 
first,  and  you  ought  to  have  prevented  his  do- 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      273 

ing  so!  But  no — you  stood  aside  and  did 
nothing!  I  suppose  you  guessed  he  might 
meet  that — that "  her  lips  snapped  to- 
gether, she  would  not  soil  them  by  uttering 
the  word  which  to  her  mind  alone  described 
Rosaleen. 

As  her  husband  did  not  answer,  suspicion 
grew  into  certainty. 

"  Did  you  know  that  she  was  there?  Did 
you  think  he  would  see  her?  "  she  demanded. 

Mr.  Rigby  looked  mildly  at  his  Kate.  "  I 
didn't  know  anything,  but  I  did  just  think  it 
possible,"  he  said. 

But  his  triumph,  if  triumph  it  was,  was 
short-lived. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  then?  A  decent 
woman  would  never  have  thought  of  such  a 
thing,  but  men  have  such  disgusting  minds ! " 
cried  his  wife  sharply.  She  added  suspi- 
ciously, "  But  how  did  you  learn  what's  hap- 
pened? Did  David  write  to  you?" 

"  He  came  into  the  office  on  his  way  back  to 
the  station,"  said  Mr.  Rigby,  briefly.  "  And, 
Kate — I've  promised  to  see  to  things  for  him. 
Rosy  will  join  them  " — he  gave  a  little  cough 
— "  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and  they  will  all 
sail  for  South  Africa  as  soon  as  matters  can  be 
settled  up.  It's  better  so,  my  dear." 


274  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Suddenly  Miss  Wellow  bent  down.  Her 
hand  fumbled  blindly  among  the  soft,  volumi- 
nous flounces  of  her  skirt. 

"  I've  got  something  here,"  she  said  in  a 
muffled  voice,  "  that  I  want  you  to  give  Rosy, 
Matt.  But  though  I  know  it's  there,  I  can't 
find  the  pocket ;  you  know  I  had  one  put  in  be- 
cause David  once  said  that  he  didn't  like  a  wo- 
man without  a  pocket  in  her  dress.  I've  found 
it — here  it  is !  " — she  took  a  step  forward,  and 
standing  close  to  her  old  friend,  thrust  into  his 
unresisting  hand  a  small  hard  substance.  He 
looked  down  and  saw  it  was  the  ruby  ring. 
"  You  can  give  this  to  the  child,"  she  said 
breathlessly,  "  I  don't  want  to  see  her  again — 
with  love  from  Auntie  Tiddy." 

But  this  was  more  than  Mrs.  Rigby  could 
stand. 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  thing,"  she  exclaimed  to 
her  husband,  "  that  Tiddy  takes  it  like  that ! 
No  man  would  ever  have  dared  to  treat  me  so ! 
But  as  long  as  she  doesn't  care — still,  she 
needn't  take  David's  part  against  his  own  sis- 
ter, who  has  the  right " 

But  what  right  David's  sister  had  was  never 
explained,  for  Miss  Wellow  suddenly  swayed 
forward;  she  would  have  fallen  to  the  ground 
had  not  Mr.  Rigby  caught  her. 


SHAMEFUL  BEHAVIOUR?      275 

"Why,  she's  fainted!"  he  said  pitifully; 
"  she  does  care — more  than  you  think,  Kate. 
But  she  will  come  round  soon — too  soon,"  he 
muttered  to  himself. 

It  was  the  same  night,  or  rather  the  next 
morning,  for  the  dawn  was  beginning  to  make 
its  grey  way  into  the  bed-chamber  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Rigby ;  it  threw  into  dim  relief  the  large, 
almost  square  four-poster,  under  the  chintz- 
covered  canopy  of  which  the  husband  and  wife 
lay,  rigid  as  if  carved  in  stone. 

"  Kate,"  said  Matt,  "  are  you  awake?  " 

He  could  just  see  her  head  lying  on  the  other 
pillow  beside  him.  Her  still  abundant  hair 
was  loosened  and  gave  her  a  look  of  youth. 
Tears  had  made  a  furrow  down  her  cheeks. 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Rigby,  "I  am  awake, 
Matt.  What  is  it  you  want? " 

"I'm  afraid,  my  dear,  that  you  are  very 
much  upset."  There  were  understanding, 
sympathy,  ay,  and  tenderness  expressed  in  the 
way  Mr.  Rigby  uttered  the  homely  word. 

His  wife,  for  the  first  time  in  their  twenty- 
five  years  of  married  life,  felt  a  responsive 
thrill.  For  the  first  time  she  was  unfaithful  to 
Nat  Bower. 

"  It's  of  you  I'm  thinking,"  she  whispered. 


276  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

"  I've  been  trying  all  night  to  forget  David, — 
my  poor  little  David, — but  it's  terrible  to  me  to 
think  that  you,  Matt,  married  into  a  family 
that  could  be  guilty  of  such  shameful  behav- 
iour!" 


VI 
THE  DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE 


THE  DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE 

JAMES  TAPSTER  was  eating  his  solitary,  well- 
cooked  dinner  in  his  comfortable  and  handsome 
house,  a  house  situated  in  one  of  the  half -moon 
terraces  which  line  and  frame  the  more  aristo- 
cratic side  of  Regent's  Park,  and  which  may 
indeed  be  said  to  have  private  grounds  of  their 
own,  for  each  resident  enjoys  the  use  of  a  key 
to  a  portion  of  the  Park  entitled  locally  "  The 
Enclosure." 

Very  early  in  his  life  Mr.  Tapster  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  he  would  like  to  live  in  Cum- 
berland Crescent  and  now  he  was  living  there ; 
very  early  in  his  life  he  had  decided  that  no  one 
could  order  a  plain  yet  palatable  meal  as  well 
as  he  could  himself,  and  now  for  some  months 
past  Mr.  Tapster  had  given  his  own  orders, 
each  morning,  to  the  cook. 

To-night  Mr.  Tapster  had  already  eaten  his 
fried  sole,  and  he  was  about  to  cut  himself  off 
a  generous  portion  of  the  grilled  under-cut 
before  him,  when  he  heard  the  postman's  steps 
hurrying  round  the  Crescent.  He  rose  with  a 
certain  quick  deliberateness,  and  going  out  into 

279 


280  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

the  hall,  opened  the  front  door  just  in  time  to 
avoid  the  rat-tat-tat.  Then,  the  one  letter  he 
had  expected  duly  in  his  hand,  he  waited  till 
he  had  sat  down  again  in  front  of  his  still 
empty  plate  before  he  broke  the  seal  and 
glanced  over  the  typewritten  sheet  of  note- 
paper. 

SHORTERS  COURT,  THROGMORTON  ST., 

November  4>th,  190 — . 
DEAR  JAMES, 

In  reply  to  your  letter  of  yesterday's  date,  I  have 
been  to  Bedford  Row  and  seen  Greenfield,  and  he 
thinks  it  probable  that  the  decree  will  be  made  abso- 
lute to-day;  in  that  case  you  will  have  received  a  wire 
before  this  letter  reaches  you. 

Your  affect,  brother, 

WM.  A.  TAPSTER. 

In  the  same  handwriting  as  the  signature 
were  added  two  holograph  lines :  "  Glad  you 
have  the  children  home  again.  Maud  will  be 
round  to  see  them  soon." 

Mr.  Tapster  read  over  once  again  the  body 
of  the  letter,  and  there  came  upon  him  an  in- 
stinctive feeling  of  intense  relief;  then,  with  a 
not  less  instinctive  feeling  of  impatience,  his 
eyes  travelled  down  again  to  the  postscript — 
"  Maud  will  be  round  to  see  them  soon." 

Well,  he  would  see  about  that !    But  he  did 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    281 

not  exclaim,  even  mentally,  as  most  men  feel- 
ing as  he  then  felt  would  have  done, "  I'll  be 
damned  if  she  will!"  knowing  the  while  that 
Maud  certainly  would. 

His  brother's  letter,  though  most  satisfac- 
tory as  regarded  its  main  point,  put  Mr.  Tap- 
ster out  of  conceit  with  the  rest  of  his  dinner; 
so  he  rang  twice  and  had  the  table  cleared, 
frowning  at  the  parlour-maid  as  she  hurried 
through  her  duties,  and  yet  not  daring  to  re- 
buke her  for  having  neglected  to  answer  the 
bell  the  first  time  he  rang. 

After  a  pause,  he  rose  and  turned  towards 
the  door — but,  no,  he  could  not  face  the  large, 
cheerless  drawing-room  upstairs;  instead,  he 
sat  down  by  the  fire,  and  set  himself  to  con- 
sider his  future,  and,  in  a  more  hazy  sense, 
that  of  his  now  motherless  children. 

But  very  soon,  as  generally  happens  to 
those  who  devote  any  time  to  that  least  profita- 
ble of  occupations,  Mr.  Tapster  found  that  his 
thoughts  drifted  aimlessly,  not  to  the  future 
where  he  would  have  them  be,  but  to  the  past 
— that  past  which  he  desired  to  forget,  to 
obliterate  from  his  memory. 

Till  rather  more  than  a  year  ago  few  men 
of  his  age — he  had  then  been  sixty,  he  was  now 
sixty-one — enjoyed  a  pleasanter  and,  from  his 


282  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

own  point  of  view,  a  better-filled  life  than 
James  Tapster.  How  he  had  scorned  the 
gambler,  the  spendthrift,  the  adulterer, — in  a 
word,  all  those  whose  actions  bring  about  their 
own  inevitable  punishment!  He  had  always 
been  self-respecting  and  conscientious, — not  a 
prig,  mind  you,  but  inclined  rather  to  the  seri- 
ous than  to  the  flippant  side  of  life,  and  so  in- 
clining he  had  found  contentment  and  great 
material  prosperity. 

Not  even  in  those  days  to  which  he  was  now 
looking  back  so  regretfully  had  Mr.  Tapster 
always  been  perfectly  content;  but  now  the 
poor  man  sitting  alone  by  his  dining-room  fire, 
only  remembered  what  had  been  good  and 
pleasant  in  his  former  state.  He  was  aware 
that  his  brother  William — and  William's  wife, 
Maud — both  thought  that  even  now  he  had 
much  to  be  thankful  for;  his  line  of  business 
was  brisk,  scarcely  touched  by  foreign  competi- 
tion, his  income  increasing  at  a  steady  rate  of 
progression,  and  his  children  were  excep- 
tionally healthy. 

But,  alas!  now  that,  in  place  of  a  pretty 
little  Mrs.  Tapster  on  whom  to  spend  easily- 
earned  money,  his  substance  was  being  squan- 
dered by  a  crowd  of  unmanageable  and  yet 
indispensable  thieves, — for  so  Mr.  Tapster 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    283 

voicelessly  described  the  five  servants  whose 
loud  talk  and  laughter  were  even  now  float- 
ing up  from  the  basement  below, — he  did  not 
feel  his  financial  stability  so  comfortable  a 
thing  as  he  had  once  done. 

His  very  children,  who  should  now  be,  as  he 
told  himself  complainingly,  his  greatest  com- 
fort, had  degenerated  from  two  sturdy,  well- 
behaved  little  boys  and  a  charming  baby  girl, 
into  three  unruly,  fretful  imps,  setting  him  at 
defiance,  and  terrorising  their  two  attendants, 
who,  though  carefully  chosen  by  their  Aunt 
Maud,  did  not  seem  to  manage  them  as  well 
as  the  old  nurse  who  had  been  an  ally  of  the 
ex-Mrs.  Tapster. 

Looking  back  at  the  whole  horrible  affair, 
for  so  in  his  own  mind  Mr.  Tapster  justly 
designated  the  divorce  case  in  which  he  had 
figured  as  the  successful  petitioner,  he  won- 
dered uneasily  if  he  had  done  quite  wisely — 
wisely,  that  is,  for  his  own  repute  and  comfort. 

He  knew  very  well  that  had  it  not  been  for 
William — or  rather  for  Maud — he  would  never 
have  found  out  the  dreadful  truth.  Nay, 
more;  he  was  dimly  aware  that  but  for  them, 
and  for  their  insistence  on  it  as  the  only  proper 
course  open  to  him,  he  would  never  have  taken 
action.  All  would  have  been  forgiven  and 


284  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

forgotten  had  riot  William — and  more  espe- 
cially Maud — said  he  must  divorce  Flossy,  if 
not  for  his  own  sake,  ah !  what  irony !  then  for 
that  of  his  children. 

Of  course  he  felt  grateful  to  his  brother 
William  and  to  his  brother's  wife  for  all  they 
had  done  for  him  since  that  sad  time.  Still,  in 
the  depths  of  his  heart,  Mr.  Tapster  felt  en- 
titled to  blame,  and  sometimes  almost  to  hate, 
his  kind  brother  and  sister.  To  them  both- 
er rather  to  Maud — he  really  owed  the  break- 
up of  his  life,  for,  when  all  was  said  and  done, 
it  had  to  be  admitted  (though  Maud  did  not 
like  him  to  remind  her  of  it)  that  Flossy  had 
met  the  villain  while  staying  with  the  William 
Tapsters  at  Boulogne.  Respectable  London 
people  should  have  known  better  than  to  take 
a  furnished  house  at  a  disreputable  French 
watering-place — a  place  full  of  low  English! 

Sometimes  it  was  only  by  a  great  exercise 
of  self-control  that  he,  James  Tapster,  could 
refrain  from  telling  Maud  what  he  thought  of 
her  conduct  in  this  matter,  the  more  so  that  she 
never  seemed  to  understand  how  greatly  she 
— and  William — had  been  to  blame. 

On  one  occasion  Maud  had  even  said  how 
surprised  she  had  been  that  James  had  cared 
to  go  away  to  America,  leaving  his  pretty 


DECREE   MADE  ABSOLUTE     285 

young  wife  alone  for  as  long  as  three  months. 
Why  hadn't  she  said  so  at  the  time,  then?  Of 
course,  he  had  thought  that  he  could  leave 
Flossy  to  be  looked  after  and  kept  out  of  mis- 
chief by  Maud — and  William.  But  he  had 
been — in  more  than  one  sense,  alas! — bitterly 
deceived. 

Still,  it's  never  any  use  crying  over  spilt 
milk,  so  Mr.  Tapster  got  up  from  his  chair 
and  walked  round  the  room,  looking  absently, 
as  he  did  so,  at  the  large  Landseer  engraving 
of  which  he  was  naturally  proud.  If  only  he 
could  forget — put  out  of  his  mind  for  ever — 
the  whole  affair!  Well,  perhaps  with  the 
Decree  being  made  Absolute  would  come  ob- 
livion. 

He  sat  down  again  before  the  fire.  Staring 
at  the  hot  embers,  he  reminded  himself  that 
Flossy,  wicked,  ungrateful  Flossy,  had  disap- 
peared out  of  his  life.  This  being  so,  why 
think  of  her?  The  very  children  had  at  last 
left  off  asking  inconvenient  questions  about 
their  mamma 

By  the  way,  would  Flossy  still  be  their 
mamma  after  the  Decree  had  been  made  Ab- 
solute?— so  Mr.  Tapster  now  suddenly  asked 
himself.  He  hesitated  perplexed. 

But  yes,  the  Decree  being  made  Absolute 


286  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

would  not  undo,  or  even  efface,  that  fact. 
The  more  so,  though  surely  here  James  Tap- 
ster showed  himself  less  logical  than  usual — 
the  more  so  that  Flossy,  in  spite  of  what  Maud 
had  always  said  about  her,  had  been  a  loving 
and,  in  her  own  light-hearted  way,  a  careful 
mother.  But  though  Flossy  would  remain 
the  mother  of  his  children — odd  that  the  Law 
hadn't  provided  for  that  contingency — she 
would  soon  be  absolutely  nothing,  and  less 
than  nothing,  to  him,  the  father  of  those  chil- 
dren. Mr.  Tapster  was  a  great  believer  in 
the  infallibility  of  the  Law,  and  he  subscribed 
whole-heartedly  to  the  new  reading,  "  What 
Law  has  put  asunder,  let  not  man  join  to- 
gether." 

To-night  Mr.  Tapster  could  not  help  look- 
ing back  with  a  certain  complacency  to  his 
one  legal  adventure.  Nothing  could  have 
been  better  done,  or  more  admirably  con- 
ducted, than  the  way  the  whole  matter  had 
been  carried  through.  His  brother  William, 
and  William's  solicitor,  Mr.  Greenfield,  had 
managed  it  all  so  very  nicely.  True,  there  had 
been  a  few  uncomfortable  moments  in  the  wit- 
ness-box, but  everyone,  including  the  Judge, 
had  been  most  kind. 

As  for  his  Counsel,  the  leading  man  who 


DECREE  MADE   ABSOLUTE    287 

makes  a  specialty  of  these  sad  aff airs,  not  even 
James  Tapster  himself  could  have  put  his  own 
case  in  a  more  delicate  and  moving  fashion. 
"A  gentleman  possessed  of  considerable  for- 
tune,'* so  had  he  been  justly  described,  and 
Counsel,  without  undue  insistence  on  irrele- 
vant detail,  had  drawn  a  touching — and  a 
true — picture  of  Mr.  Tapster's  one  romance, 
his  marriage  eight  years  before  to  the  twenty- 
year-old  daughter  of  an  undischarged  bank- 
rupt. Even  the  Petitioner  had  scarcely  seen 
Flossy's  dreadful  ingratitude  in  its  true  colours 
till  he  had  heard  his  Counsel's  moderate  com- 
ments on  the  case. 

This  evening  Mr.  Tapster  saw  Flossy's 
dreadful  ingratitude  terribly  clearly,  and  he 
wondered,  not  for  the  first  time,  how  his  wife 
could  have  had  the  heart  to  break  up  his  happy 
home! 

Why,  but  for  him  and  his  offer  of  marriage, 
Flossy  Ball — that  had  been  his  wife's  maiden 
name — would  have  had  to  have  earned  her  own 
living !  And  as  she  had  been  very  pretty,  very 
"  fetching,"  she  would  probably  have  married 
some  good-for-nothing  young  fellow  of  her 
own  age  lacking  the  means  to  support  a  wife  in 
decent  comfort, — such  a  fellow,  for  instance,  as 
the  wretched  "  Co."  in  the  case.  While  with 


288  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Mr.  Tapster — why,  she  had  had  everything 
the  heart  of  woman  could  wish  for,  a  good 
home,  beautiful  clothes,  and  the  being  waited 
on  hand  and  foot.  A  strange  choking  feeling 
came  into  his  throat  as  he  thought  of  how  good 
he  had  been  to  Flossy,  and  how  very  bad  had 
been  her  return  for  that  kindness. 

But  this — this  was  dreadful !  He  was  actu- 
ally thinking  of  her  again,  and  not,  as  he  had 
meant  to  do,  of  himself  and  his  poor,  mother- 
less children.  Time  enough  to  think  of  Flossy 
when  he  had  news  of  her  again.  If  her  lover 
did  not  marry  her — and  from  what  Mr.  Green- 
field had  discovered  about  him,  it  was  most 
improbable  that  he  would  ever  be  in  a  position 
to  do  so — she  would  certainly  reappear  on  the 
Tapster  horizon;  Mr.  Greenfield  said  "they" 
always  did.  In  that  case,  it  was  arranged  that 
William  should  pay  her  a  weekly  allowance. 
Mr.  Tapster,  always,  as  he  now  reminded  him- 
self sadly,  ready  to  do  the  generous  thing,  had 
fixed  that  allowance  at  three  pounds  a  week — 
a  sum  which  had  astonished,  in  fact  quite  stag- 
gered, Mr.  Greenfield's  head  clerk,  a  very  de- 
cent fellow,  by  the  way. 

"  Of  course,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish,  Mr.  Tap- 
ster, but  you  should  think  of  the  future  and  of 
your  children.  A  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a 


DECREE  MADE   ABSOLUTE     289 

year  is  a  large  sum;  you  may  feel  it  a  tax,  sir, 
as  years  go  on " 

"That  is  enough,"  Mr.  Tapster  had  an- 
swered, kindly  but  firmly;  "you  have  done 
your  duty  in  laying  that  side  of  the  case  before 
me.  I  have,  however,  decided  on  the  amount 
named ;  should  I  see  reason  to  alter  my  mind, 
our  arrangement  leaves  it  open  to  me  at  any 
time  to  lower  the  allowance." 

But  though  this  conversation  had  taken 
place  some  months  ago,  and  though  Mr.  Tap- 
ster still  held  true  to  his  generous  resolve,  as 
yet  Flossy  had  not  reappeared. 

Mr.  Tapster  sometimes  told  himself  that  if 
he  only  knew  where  she  was,  what  she  was  do- 
ing,— whether  she  was  still  with  that  young 
fellow,  for  instance, — he  would  think  much  less 
about  her  than  he  did  now.  Only  last  night, 
when  going  for  a  moment  into  the  night  nur- 
sery,— poor  Mr.  Tapster  now  only  enjoyed  his 
children's  company  when  he  was  quite  sure 
that  they  were  asleep, — he  had  had  an  extraor- 
dinary, almost  a  physical,  impression  of  Flos- 
sy's  presence;  he  certainly  had  felt  a  faint 
whiff  of  her  favourite  perfume.  Flossy  had 
been  fond  of  scent,  and  though  Maud  always 
said  that  the  use  of  scent  was  most  unladylike, 
he,  James,  did  not  dislike  it. 


290  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

With  sudden  soreness  Mr.  Tapster  now  re- 
called the  one  letter  Flossy  had  written  to  him 
just  before  the  actual  hearing  of  the  divorce 
suit. 

It  had  been  a  wild,  oddly-worded  appeal  to 
him  to  take  her  back,  not — as  Maud  had  at 
once  perceived  on  reading  the  letter — because 
she  was  sorry  for  the  terrible  thing  she  had 
done,  but  simply  because  she  was  beginning  to 
hanker  after  her  children.  Maud  had  de- 
scribed the  letter  as  shameless  and  unwomanly 
in  the  extreme;  and  even  William,  who  had 
never  judged  his  pretty  young  sister-in-law  as 
severely  as  his  wife  had  always  done,  had  ob- 
served sadly  that  Flossy  seemed  quite  unaware 
of  the  magnitude  of  her  offence  against  God 
and  man. 

Mr.  Tapster,  who  prided  himself  on  his 
sharp  ears,  suddenly  heard  a  curious  little 
sound — he  knew  it  for  that  of  the  front  door 
being  first  opened  and  then  shut  again,  ex- 
tremely quietly.  He  half  rose  from  his  chair 
by  the  fire,  then  sat  down  again,  heavily. 

By  Maud's  advice  he  always  locked  the  area 
gate  himself,  when  he  came  home  each  evening. 
But  how  foolish  of  Maud — such  a  sensible 
woman  too, — to  think  that  servants  and  their 


DECREE   MADE  ABSOLUTE     291 

evil  ways  could  be  circumvented  so  easily!  Of 
course,  the  maids  went  in  and  out  by  the  front 
door  in  the  evening,  and  the  policeman — a  most 
respectable  officer  standing  at  point  duty  a  few 
yards  lower  down  the  road — must  be  well 
aware  of  these  disgraceful  "  goings  on." 

For  the  first  two  or  three  months  of  his 
widowerhood  (how  else  could  he  term  his  pres- 
ent peculiar  wifeless  condition?)  there  had 
been  a  constant  coming  and  going  of  servants, 
first  chosen,  and  then  dismissed,  by  Maud.  At 
last  she  had  suggested  that  her  brother-in-law 
should  engage  a  lady  housekeeper,  and  the 
luckless  James  Tapster  had  even  interviewed 
several  applicants  for  the  post  after  they  had 
been  chosen — sifted  out,  as  it  were — by  Maud. 
Unfortunately  they  had  all  been  each  more  or 
less  of  his  own  age ;  and  plain — very  plain ; 
while  he,  naturally  enough,  would  have  pre- 
ferred to  see  something  young  and  pretty 
about  him  again. 

It  was  over  this  housekeeper  question  that 
he  had  at  last  escaped  from  Maud's  domestic 
thraldom,  for  his  sister-in-law,  offended  by  his 
rejection  of  each  of  her  candidates,  had  de- 
clared that  she  would  take  no  more  trouble 
about  his  household  affairs!  Nay,  more;  she 
had  reminded  him  with  a  smile  which  she  had 


292  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

honestly  tried  to  make  pleasant,  that  there  is, 
after  all,  no  fool  like  an  old  fool — about 
women!  This  insinuation  had  made  Mr.  Tap- 
ster very  angry,  and  straightway  he  had  en- 
gaged a  respectable  cook-housekeeper,  and,  al- 
though he  had  soon  become  aware  that  the 
woman  was  feathering  her  own  nest, — James 
Tapster,  as  you  will  have  divined  ere  now,  was 
fond  of  good  workaday  phrases, — yet  she  had 
a  pleasant,  respectful  manner,  and  kept  rough 
order  among  the  younger  servants. 

Mr.  Tapster's  sister-in-law  only  now  inter- 
fered where  his  children  were  concerned. 
Never  having  been  herself  a  mother,  she  had, 
of  course,  been  able  to  form  a  clear  and  un- 
prejudiced judgment  as  to  how  children,  and 
especially  as  to  how  little  boys,  should  be  phys- 
ically and  mentally  trained. 

As  yet,  however,  Maud  had  not  been  very 
successful  with  her  two  nephews  and  infant 
niece,  but  this  was  doubtless  owing  to  the  fact 
that  there  had  been  something  gravely  amiss 
with  each  of  the  five  nurses  who  had  been  suc- 
cessively engaged  by  her  during  the  last  year. 

The  elder  of  Mr.  Tapster's  sons  was  six 
and  the  second  four ;  the  youngest  child,  a  lit- 
tle girl  named  unfortunately  Flora  after  her 
mother,  was  three  years  old.  There  had  been 


DECREE   MADE   ABSOLUTE     293 

a  fourth,  Flossy's  second  baby,  also  a  girl,  who 
had  only  lived  one  day.  All  this  being  so,  was 
it  not  strange  that  a  young  matron  who  had 
led,  for  some  four  years  out  of  the  eight  years 
her  married  life  had  lasted,  so  wholly  womanly 
and  domestic  an  existence  as  had  fallen  to  the 
lot  of  Flossy,  should  have  been  led  astray  by 
the  meretricious  allurements  of  unlawful  love? 
— Maud's  striking  thought  and  phrase  this. 

And  yet  Flossy,  in  spite  of  her  frivolity,  had 
somehow  managed  the  children  far  better  than 
Maud  was  now  able  to  do.  At  the  present 
time,  so  Mr.  Tapster  admitted  to  himself  with 
something  very  like  an  inward  groan,  his  two 
sons  possessed  every  vice  of  which  masculine 
infancy  is  capable.  They  had  become — so  he 
was  told  by  their  indignant  nurses — the  terror 
of  the  well-behaved  children  who  shared  with 
them  the  pleasures  of  the  Park  Enclosure, 
where  they  took  their  daily  exercise;  and  Baby, 
once  so  sweet  and  good,  was  now  very  fretful 
End  peevish. 

Again  the  train  of  Mr.  Tapster's  mournful 
thoughts  was  disturbed  by  a  curious  little 
sound — that  of  someone  creeping  softly  down 
the  staircase  leading  from  the  upper  floors. 

Once  more  he  half  rose  from  his  chair,  only 


294  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

to  fall  heavily  back  again  with  a  look  of  impo- 
tent annoyance  on  his  round,  whiskered  face. 
Where  was  the  use  of  his  going  out  into  the 
hall  and  catching  Nurse  on  her  way  to  the 
kitchen?  Maud  had  declared,  very  early  in 
the  day,  that  there  should  be  as  little  communi- 
cation as  possible  between  the  kitchen  and  the 
nursery;  but  Mr.  Tapster  sometimes  found 
himself  in  secret  sympathy  with  the  two 
women  whose  disagreeable  duty  it  was  to  be 
always  with  his  three  turbulent  children. 

Mr.  .Tapster  frowned  and  stared  gloomily 
into  the  fire;  then  he  suddenly  pulled  himself 
together  rather  sharply,  for  the  door  behind 
him  had  slowly  swung  open.  This  was  intol- 
erable! The  parlour-maid  had  again  and 
'again  been  told  that,  whatever  might  have 
been  the  case  in  her  former  places,  no  door  in 
Mr.  Tapster's  house  was  to  be  opened  without 
the  preliminary  of  a  respectful  knock. 

Fortified  by  the  memory  of  what  had  been 
a  positive  order,  he  turned  round  and  nerved 
himself  to  deliver  the  necessary  rebuke ;  but  in- 
stead of  the  shifty-eyed,  impudent-looking  wo- 
man he  had  thought  to  see,  there  stood  close  to 
him,  so  close  that  he  could  almost  have  touched 
her — Flossy,  his  wife,  or  rather  the  woman 
who,  though  no  longer  his  wife,  had  still,  as  he 


DECREE   MADE   ABSOLUTE    295 

had  been  informed  to  his  discomfiture,  the 
right  to  bear  his  name. 

A  very  strange  feeling,  and  one  so  compli- 
cated that  it  sat  uneasily  upon  him,  took  in- 
stant possession  of  Mr.  Tapster — anger,  sur- 
prise, and  relief  warred  with  one  another  in 
his  heart. 

Then  he  began  to  think  that  his  eyes  must 
be  playing  him  some  curious  trick,  for  the 
figure  at  which  he  was  staring  remained 
strangely  still  and  motionless. 

Was  it  possible  that  his  mind,  dwelling  con- 
stantly on  Flossy,  had  evoked  her  wraith? 
But,  no;  looking  up  in  startled  silence  at  the 
still  figure  standing  before  him,  he  realised 
that  not  so  would  memory  have  conjured  up 
the  pretty,  bright  little  woman  of  whom  he 
had  once  been  proud.  Flossy  still  looked 
pretty,  but  she  was  thin  and  pale,  and  there 
were  dark  rings  round  her  eyes ;  also  her  dress 
was  worn,  her  hat  curiously  shabby. 

As  Mr.  Tapster  stared  up  at  her,  noting 
these  things,  one  of  her  hands  began  playing 
nervously  with  the  fringe  of  the  dining-table 
cover,  and  the  other  sought  the  back  of  what 
had  once  been  one  of  her  dining-room  chairs. 

As  he  watched  her  making  these  slight  move- 
ments, nature  so  far  reasserted  itself  that  a 


296  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

feeling  of  poignant  regret,  of  pity  for  her — as 
well  as,  of  course,  a  much  larger  share  of  pity 
for  himself — came  over  James  Tapster. 

Had  Flossy  spoken  then, — had  she  pos- 
sessed the  intuitive  knowledge  of  men  which  is 
the  gift  of  so  many  otherwise  unintelligent 
women, — the  whole  of  Mr.  Tapster's  future, 
to  say  nothing  of  her  own,  might  have  been 
different,  and,  it  may  be  suggested,  happier. 

But  the  moment  of  softening  and  mansue- 
tude  slipped  quickly  by,  and  was  succeeded  by 
a  burst  of  anger,  for  Mr.  Tapster  suddenly 
became  aware  that  Flossy's  left  hand,  the  lit- 
tle thin  hand  resting  on  the  back  of  the  chair, 
was  holding  two  keys  which  he  recognised  at 
once  as  his  property.  The  one  was  a  replica 
of  the  latch-key  which  always  hung  on  his 
watch-chain,  while  the  other  and  larger  key, 
to  which  was  attached  a  brass  tab  bearing  the 
name  of  Tapster  and  the  address  of  the  house, 
gave  access  to  the  Enclosure  Garden  opposite 
Cumberland  Crescent. 

Avoiding  her  eager,  pitiful  look,  Mr.  Tap- 
ster set  himself  to  realise,  with  a  shrewdness 
for  which  William  and  Maud  would  never 
have  given  him  credit,  what  Flossy's  posses- 
sion of  those  two  keys  had  meant  during  the 
last  few  months. 


DECREE   MADE   ABSOLUTE     297 

This  woman,  who  both  was  and  was  not  Mrs. 
Tapster,  had  retained  the  power  to  come  freely 
in  and  out  of  his  house !  She  had  been  able  to 
make  her  way,  with  or  without  the  connivance 
of  the  servants,  into  his  children's  nursery  at 
any  hour  of  the  day  or  night  convenient  to  her- 
self. With  the  aid  of  that  Enclosure  key  she 
had  no  doubt  often  seen  the  children  during 
their  daily  walk !  In  a  word,  Flossy  had  been 
able  to  enjoy  all  the  privileges  of  motherhood 
while  having  forfeited  all  those  of  happy  wife- 
hood! 

His  mind  hastened  heavily  on — what  a  fool 
he  must  have  looked  before  his  servants,  how 
they  must  have  laughed  to  think  that  he  was 
being  so  deceived  and  taken  in!  Why,  even 
the  policeman  who  stood  at  point  duty  outside 
must  have  known  all  about  it! 

Small  wonder  that  Mr.  Tapster  felt  ex- 
tremely incensed ;  small  wonder  that  his  heart, 
hardening,  solidifying,  expelled  any  feeling  of 
pity  provoked  by  Flossy's  sad  and  downcast 
appearance. 

"  I  must  request  you,"  he  said,  .in  a  voice 
which  even  to  himself  sounded  harsh  and  need- 
lessly loud,  "  to  give  up  those  keys  which  you 
hold  in  your  hand.  You  have  no  right  to  their 
possession,  and  I  grieve  to  think  that  you  took 


298  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

advantage  of  my  great  distress  of  mind  not  to 
return  them  with  the  things  of  which  I  sent 
you  a  list  by  my  brother  William.  I  cannot 
believe  " — and  now  Mr.  Tapster  lied  as  only 
the  very  truthful  can  lie  on  occasion — "  I  can- 
not believe,  I  say,  that  you  have  taken  advan- 
tage of  my  having  overlooked  them,  and  that 
you  have  ever  before  to-night  forced  yourself 
into  this  house!  Still  less  can  I  believe  that 
you  have  taught  our — my — children  to  deceive 
their  father!" 

Even  when  uttering  his  first  sentence  he  had 
noticed  that  there  had  come  over  Flossy's  face 
— which  was  thinner,  if  quite  as  pretty  and 
youthful-looking  as  when  he  had  last  seen  it — 
an  expression  of  obstinacy  which  he  had  once 
well  known  and  always  dreaded.  It  had  been 
Flossy's  one  poor  weapon  against  her  hus- 
band's superior  sense  and  power  of  getting  his 
own  way,  and  sometimes  it  had  vanquished  him 
in  that  fair  fight  which  is  always  being  waged 
between  the  average  husband  and  wife. 

"You  are  right,"  she  cried  passionately; 
"  I  have  not  taught  the  children  to  deceive  you ! 
I  have  never  come  into  this  house  until  I  felt 
sure  that  they  were  asleep  and  alone,  though 
I've  often  wondered  that  they  never  woke  up 
and  knew  that  their  own  mother  was  there! 


DECREE   MADE  ABSOLUTE  299 

But  more  than  once,  James,  I've  felt  like  go- 
ing after  that  Society  which  looks  after  badly- 
treated  children — for  the  last  nurse  you  had 
for  them  was  so  cruel !  If  she  hadn't  left  you 
soon  I  should  have  had  to  do  something.  I 
used  to  feel  desperate  when  I  saw  her  shake 
Baby  in  her  pram;  why,  one  day,  in  the  En- 
closure, a  lady  spoke  to  her  about  it,  and 
threatened  to  tell  her — her  mistress " 

Flossy's  voice  sank  to  a  shamed  whisper. 
The  tears  were  rolling  down  her  cheeks;  she 
was  speaking  in  angry  gasps,  and  what  she 
said  actually  made  James  Tapster  feel,  what 
he  knew  full  well  he  had  no  reason  to  feel, 
ashamed  of  himself. 

"That  is  why" — she  went  on— "that  is 
why  I  have,  as  you  say,  forced  myself  into 
your  house,  and  why,  too,  I  have  now  come 
here  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me — to  take  me 
back — just  for  the  sake  of  the  children." 

Mr.  Tapster's  mind  was  one  that  travelled 
surely  if  slowly.  He  saw  his  chance  and 
seized  it. 

"  And  why,"  he  said  impressively,  "  had  that 
woman — the  nurse,  I  mean — no  mistress? 
Tell  me  that,  Flossy.  You  should  have 
thought  of  all  that  before  you  behaved  as  you 
did!" 


300  STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

"  I  didn't  know— I  didn't  think " 

Mr.  Tapster  finished  the  sentence  for  her. 
"  You  didn't  think,"  he  observed  impressively, 
"  that  I  should  ever  find  you  out." 

Then  there  came  over  him  a  morbid  wish  to 
discover — to  learn  from  her  own  lips — why 
Flossy  had  done  such  a  shameful  and  extraor- 
dinary thing  as  to  be  unfaithful  to  her  marriage 
vow. 

"  Whatever  made  you  behave  so? "  he  asked 
in  a  low  voice.  "  I  wasn't  unkind  to  you,  was 
I  ?  You  had  a  nice,  comfortable  home,  hadn't 
you?" 

"  I  was  mad,"  she  answered  with  a  touch  of 
sharp  weariness.  "  I  don't  suppose  I  could 
ever  make  you  understand,  and  yet" — she 
looked  at  him  deprecatingly — "  I  suppose, 
James,  that  you  too  were  young  once,  and — 
and — mad? " 

Mr.  Tapster  stared  at  Flossy.  What  ex- 
traordinary things  she  said !  Of  course  he  had 
been  young  once;  for  the  matter  of  that  he 
didn't  feel  old — not  to  say  old — even  now.  But 
he  had  always  been  perfectly  sane — she  knew 
that  well  enough!  As  for  her  calling  herself 
mad,  that  was  a  mere  figure  of  speech.  Of 
course,  in  a  sense  she  had  been  mad  to  do  what 
she  had  done,  and  he  was  glad  that  she  now 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    801 

understood  this,  but  her  saying  so  simply 
begged  the  whole  question,  and  left  him  no 
wiser  than  he  was  before. 

There  was  a  long,  tense  silence  between 
them.  Then  Mr.  Tapster  slowly  rose  from  his 
armchair  and  faced  his  wife. 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "that  William  was  right. 
I  mean,  I  suppose  I  may  take  it  that  that 
young  fellow  has  gone  and  left  you? " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  curious  indifference, 
"  he  has  gone  and  left  me.  His  father  made 
him  take  a  job  out  in  Brazil  just  after  the  case 
was  through." 

"And  what  have  you  been  doing  since 
then? "  asked  Mr.  Tapster  suspiciously. 
"  How  have  you  been  living? " 

"  His  father  gives  me  a  pound  a  week.'* 
Flossy  still  spoke  with  that  curious  indiffer- 
ence. "  I  tried  to  get  something  to  do  " — she 
hesitated,  then  offered  the  lame  explanation, 
"  just  to  have  something  to  do,  for  I've  been 
awfully  lonely  and  miserable,  James.  But  I 
don't  seem  to  be  able  to  get  anything." 

"  If  you  had  written  to  Mr.  Greenfield  or  to 
William,  they  would  have  told  you  that  I  had 
arranged  for  you  to  have  an  allowance,"  he 
said,  and  then  again  he  fell  into  silence.  .  .  . 

Mr.  Tapster  was  seeing  a  vision  of  himself 


302          STUDIES   IN  WIVES 

magnanimous,  forgiving, — taking  the  peccant 
Flossy  back  to  his  heart,  and  becoming  once 
more,  in  a  material  sense,  comfortable !  If  he 
acceded  to  her  wish,  if  he  made  up  his  mind  to 
forgive  her,  he  would  have  to  begin  life  all  over 
again,  move  away  from  Cumberland  Crescent 
to  some  distant  place  where  the  story  was  not 
known, — perhaps  to  Clapham,  where  he  had 
spent  his  boyhood. 

But  how  about  Maud?  How  about  Wil- 
liam? How  about  the  very  considerable  ex- 
pense to  which  he  had  been  put  in  connection 
with  the  divorce  proceedings?  Was  all  that 
money  to  be  wasted? 

Mr.  Tapster  suddenly  saw  the  whole  of  his 
little  world  rising  up  in  judgment,  smiling 
pityingly  at  his  folly  and  weakness.  During 
the  whole  of  a  long  and  of  what  had  been,  till 
this  last  year,  a  very  prosperous  life,  Mr.  Tap- 
ster had  always  steered  his  safe  course  by  what 
may  be  called  the  compass  of  public  opinion, 
and  now,  when  navigating  an  unknown  sea,  he 
could  not  afford  to  throw  that  compass  over- 
board, so 

"No,"  he  said.  "No,  Flossy.  It  would 
not  be  right  for  me  to  take  you  back.  It 
wouldn't  do." 

"  Wouldn't     it? "     she     asked     piteously. 


DECREE   MADE   ABSOLUTE     303 

"  Oh!  James,  don't  say  no  like  that,  all  at  once! 
People  do  forgive  each  other — sometimes.  I 
don't  ask  you  to  be  as  kind  to  me  as  you  were 
before ;  only  to  let  me  come  home  and  see  after 
the  children ! " 

But  Mr.  Tapster  shook  his  head.  The  chil- 
dren! Always  the  children!  He  noticed, 
even  now,  that  she  didn't  say  a  word  of  want- 
ing to  come  back  to  him;  and  yet  he  had  been 
such  a  kind,  nay,  if  Maud  were  to  be  believed, 
such  a  foolishly  indulgent,  husband. 

And  then  Flossy  looked  so  different.  Mr. 
Tapster  felt  as  if  a  stranger  were  standing 
there  before  him.  Her  appearance  of  poverty 
shocked  him.  Had  she  looked  well  and  pros- 
perous, he  would  have  felt  injured,  and  yet  her 
pinched  face  and  shabby  clothes  certainly  re- 
pelled him.  So  again  he  shook  his  head,  and 
there  came  into  his  face  a  look  which  Flossy 
had  always  known  in  the  old  days  to  spell  final- 
ity; when  he  again  spoke  she  saw  that  her 
knowledge  had  not  misled  her. 

"  I  don't  want  to  be  unkind,"  he  said  pon- 
derously. "  If  you  will  only  go  to  William,  or 
write  to  him  if  you  would  rather  not  go  to  the 
office,"— Mr.  Tapster  did  not  like  to  think  that 
anyone  once  closely  connected  with  him  should 
"  look  like  that "  in  his  brother's  office,—"  he 


304          STUDIES   IN  WIVES 

will  tell  you  what  you  had  better  do.  I'm 
quite  ready  to  make  you  a  handsome  allow- 
ance— in  fact,  it's  all  arranged.  You  need  not 
have  anything  more  to  do  with  that  fellow's 
father — an  Army  Colonel,  isn't  he? — and  his 
pound  a  week ;  but  William  thinks,  and  I  must 
say  I  agree,  that  you  ought  to  go  back  to  your 
maiden  name,  Flossy,  as  being  more  fair  to 


me." 


"  And  am  I  never  to  see  the  children  again? " 
she  asked. 

"  No ;  it  wouldn't  be  right  for  me  to  let  you 
do  so." 

He  hesitated,  then  added,  "  They  don't  miss 
you  any  more  now," — with  no  unkindly  intent 
he  concluded,  "  soon  they'll  have  forgotten  you 
altogether." 

And  then,  just  as  Mr.  Tapster  was  hesitat- 
ing, seeking  for  a  suitable  and  not  unkindly 
sentence  of  farewell,  he  saw  a  very  strange,  al- 
most a  desperate,  look  come  over  Flossy's  face, 
and,  to  his  surprise,  she  suddenly  turned  and 
left  the  room,  closing  the  door  very  carefully 
behind  her. 

He  stared  after  her.  How  very  odd  of  her 
to  say  nothing  I  And  what  a  queer  look  had 
come  over  her  face!  He  could  not  help  feel- 
ing hurt  that  she  had  not  thanked  him  for  what 


he  knew  to  be  a  very  generous  and  unusual 
provision  on  the  part  of  an  injured  husband. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Tapster  took  a  silk  handkerchief  out 
of  his  pocket  and  passed  it  twice  over  his  face, 
then  once  more  he  sought  and  sank  into  the 
armchair  by  the  fire. 

Even  now  he  still  felt  keenly  conscious  of 
Flossy 's  nearness.  What  could  she  be  doing? 
Then  he  straightened  himself  and  listened. 

Yes,  it  was  as  he  feared;  she  had  gone  up- 
stairs— upstairs  to  look  at  the  children,  for 
now  he  could  hear  her  coming  down  again. 
How  obstinate  she  was — how  obstinate  and 
ungrateful!  Mr.  Tapster  wished  he  had  the 
courage  to  go  out  into  the  hall  and  face  her  in 
order  to  tell  her  how  wrong  her  conduct  was. 
Why,  she  had  actually  kept  the  keys — those 
keys  that  were  his  property! 

Suddenly  he  heard  her  light  footsteps  hurry- 
ing down  the  hall;  now  she  was  opening  the 
front  door, — it  slammed,  and  again  Mr.  Tap- 
ster felt  pained  to  think  how  strangely  indif- 
ferent Flossy  was  to  his  interests.  Why,  what 
would  the  servants  think,  hearing  the  front 
door  slam  like  that? 

But  still,  now  that  it  was  over,  he  was  glad 
the  interview  had  taken  place,  for  henceforth 
—or  so  at  least  Mr.  Tapster  believed— the 


306          STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Flossy  of  the  past,  the  bright,  pretty,  prosper- 
ous Flossy  of  whom  he  had  been  so  proud, 
would  cease  to  haunt  him. 

He  remembered  with  a  feeling  of  relief  that 
she  was  going  to  his  brother  William ;  of  course 
she  would  then,  among  greater  renunciations, 
be  compelled  to  return  the  two  keys,  for  they 
— that  is,  his  brother  and  himself — would  have 
her  in  their  power.  They  would  not  behave 
unkindly  to  her — far  from  it;  in  fact,  they 
would  arrange  for  her  to  live  with  some  quiet, 
religious  lady  in  a  country  town  a  few  hours 
from  London.  Mr.  Tapster  had  not  evolved 
this  scheme  for  himself;  it  had  been  done  in  a 
similar  case — one  of  those  cases  which,  in  the 
long  ago,  when  he  was  still  a  single  man,  had 
aroused  his  pitying  contempt  for  husbands 
who  allow  themselves  to  be  deceived. 

Then  Mr.  Tapster  began  going  over  each  in- 
cident of  the  strange  little  interview,  for  he 
wanted  to  tell  his  brother  William  exactly 
what  had  taken  place. 

His  conscience  was  quite  clear  except  with 
regard  to  one  matter,  and  that,  after  all, 
needn't  be  mentioned  to  William.  He  felt 
rather  ashamed  of  having  asked  the  question 
which  had  provoked  so  wild  an  answer — so  un- 
expected a  retort. 

Mad?    What  had  Flossy  meant  by  asking 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    307 

him  if  he  had  ever  been  mad?  No  one  had 
ever  used  the  word  in  connection  with  James 
Tapster  before — save  once.  Oddly  enough, 
that  occasion  also  had  been  connected  with 
Flossy  in  a  way ;  for  it  had  happened  when  he 
had  gone  to  tell  William  and  Maud  of  his  en- 
gagement. 

It  was  on  a  fine  day  nine  years  ago  come  this 
May,  and  he  had  found  William  and  William's 
wife  walking  in  their  garden  on  Haverstock 
Hill.  His  kind  brother,  as  always,  had  been 
most  sympathetic,  and  had  even  made  a  suit- 
able joke — Mr.  Tapster  remembered  it  very 
sadly  to-night — concerning  the  spring  and  a 
young  man's  fancy;  but  Maud  had  been  really 
disagreeable.  She  had  said,  "  It's  no  use  talk- 
ing to  you,  James,  for  you're  mad — quite 
mad! "  He  had  argued  the  matter  out  with 
her  good-temperedly,  and  William  had  sup- 
ported him  in  pointing  out  that  he  was  doing 
an  eminently  sane  thing  in  marrying  Flossy 
Ball.  But  Maud  again  and  again  had  ex- 
claimed, in  her  determined,  aggravating  voice, 
"  I  say  you  are  mad.  They  don't  let  lunatics 
marry — and  just  now  you  are  a  lunatic, 
James  1 " 

Strange  that  he  should  remember  all  this  to- 
night; for,  after  all,  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  present  state  of  affairs. 


308          STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

Mr.  Tapster  felt  rather  shaken  and  nervous ; 
he  pulled  out  his  repeater  watch;  but,  alas!  it 
was  still  very  early — only  ten  minutes  to  nine. 
He  couldn't  go  to  bed  yet.  Perhaps  he  would 
do  well  to  join  a  club.  He  had  always 
thought  rather  poorly  of  men  who  belonged  to 
clubs, — most  of  them  were  idle,  lazy  fellows; 
but  still,  circumstances  alter  cases. 

Suddenly  he  began  to  wish  that  Flossy  had 
remained  a  little  longer. 

He  thought  of  all  sorts  of  things — improv- 
ing, kindly  remarks — he  would  have  liked  to 
say  to  her.  He  blamed  himself  for  not  hav- 
ing offered  her  any  refreshment;  she  would 
probably  have  refused  to  take  anything,  but 
still,  it  was  wrong  on  his  part  not  to  have 
thought  of  it.  A  pound  a  week  for  every- 
thing! No  wonder  she  looked  half  starved. 
Why,  his  own  household  bills,  exclusive  of  wine 
or  beer,  had  worked  out,  since  he  had  had  this 
new  expensive  housekeeper,  at  something  like 
fifteen  shillings  a  head — a  fact  which  he  had 
managed  to  conceal  from  Maud,  who  "  did  " 
her  William  so  well  on  exactly  ten  shillings 
and  nine-pence  all  round ! 

It  struck  nine  from  the  neighbouring  church 
where  Mr.  Tapster  had  sittings, — but  where  he 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    309 

seldom  was  able  to  go  on  Sunday  mornings,  for 
he  was  proud  of  being  among  those  old-fash- 
ioned folk  who  still  regard  Sunday  as  essen- 
tially a  day  of  rest, — and  there  came  a  sudden 
sound  of  hoarse  shouting  from  the  road  out- 
side. 

Though  he  was  glad  of  anything  that  broke 
the  oppressive  silence  with  which  he  felt  en- 
compassed, Mr.  Tapster  found  time  to  tell 
himself  that  it  was  disgraceful  that  vulgar 
street  brawlers  should  invade  so  quiet  a  resi- 
dential thoroughfare  as  Cumberland  Crescent. 
But  order  would  soon  be  restored,  for  the 
sound  of  a  policeman's  whistle  cut  sharply 
through  the  air. 

The  noise,  however,  continued.  He  could 
hear  the  tramp  of  feet  hurrying  past  his  house, 
and  then  leaving  the  pavement  for  the  other 
side  of  the  road.  What  could  be  the  matter? 
Something  very  exciting  must  be  going  on  just 
opposite  his  front  door — that  is,  close  to  the 
Enclosure  railings. 

Mr.  Tapster  got  up  from  his  chair,  and 
walked  in  a  leisurely  way  to  the  wide  window; 
he  drew  aside  the  thick  red  rep  curtains,  and 
lifted  a  corner  of  the  blind. 

Then,  through  the  slightly  foggy  haze,  he 
saw  that  which  greatly  surprised  him  and  made 


310          STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

him  feel  actively  indignant,  for  a  string  of  peo- 
ple, men,  women,  and  boys,  were  hurrying  into 
the  Enclosure  garden — that  sacred  place  set 
apart  for  the  exclusive  use  of  the  nobility  and 
gentry  who  lived  in  Cumberland  Crescent  and 
the  adjoining  terraces. 

What  an  abominable  thing!  Why,  the 
grass  would  be  all  trampled  down;  and  these 
dirty  people,  these  slum  folk  who  seem  to 
spring  out  of  the  earth  when  anything  of  a  dis- 
agreeable or  shameful  nature  is  taking  place 
— a  fire,  for  instance,  or  a  brawl — might  easily 
bring  infectious  diseases  on  to  those  gravel 
paths  where  the  little  Tapsters  and  their  like 
run  about  playing  their  innocent  games.  Some 
careless  person  had  evidently  left  the  gate  un- 
locked, and  the  fight,  or  whatever  it  was,  must 
be  taking  place  inside  the  Enclosure ! 

Had  this  been  an  ordinary  night,  Mr.  Tap- 
ster would  have  gone  back  to  the  fire,  but  now 
the  need  for  human  companionship  was  so 
strong  upon  him  that  he  stayed  at  the  window, 
and  went  on  staring  at  the  curious  shadow- 
filled  scene. 

Soon  he  saw  with  satisfaction  that  something 
like  order  was  to  be  restored.  A  stalwart 
policeman — in  fact,  his  friend  the  officer  who 
was  always  at  point  duty  some  yards  from  his 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    811 

house — now  stood  at  the  gate  of  the  Enclosure, 
forbidding  any  further  passing  through. 

Mr.  Tapster  tried  in  vain  to  see  what  was 
going  on  inside  the  railings,  but  everything  be- 
yond the  brightly-lighted  road  was  wrapped  in 
grey  darkness.  Someone  suddenly  held  up 
high  a  flaming  torch,  and  the  watcher  at  the 
window  saw  that  the  shadowy  crowd  which  had 
managed  to  force  its  way  into  the  Park  hung 
together,  like  bees  swarming,  on  the  further 
lawn  through  which  flowed  the  ornamental 
water.  With  the  gleaming  of  the  yellow, 
wavering  light  there  had  fallen  a  sudden  hush 
and  silence,  and  Mr.  Tapster  wondered  un- 
easily what  those  people  were  doing  there,  and 
what  it  was  they  were  pressing  forward  so 
eagerly  to  see. 

Then  he  realised  that  it  must  have  been  a 
fight  after  all,  for  now  the  crowd  was  parting 
in  two,  and  down  the  lane  so  formed  Mr.  Tap- 
ster saw  coming  towards  the  gate,  and  so  in  a 
sense  towards  himself,  a  rather  pitiful  little 
procession.  Someone  had  evidently  been  in- 
jured, and  that  seriously,  for  four  men,  bear- 
ing a  sheep-hurdle  on  which  lay  a  huddled 
mass,  were  walking  slowly  towards  the 
guarded  gate,  and  he  heard  distinctly  the 
gruffly  uttered  words :  "  Stand  back,  please- 


312          STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

stand  back  there!  We're  going  to  cross  the 
road." 

The  now  large  crowd  suddenly  swayed  for- 
ward; indeed,  to  Mr.  Tapster's  astonished 
eyes,  they  seemed  to  be  actually  making  a  rush 
for  his  house;  and  a  moment  later  they  were 
pressing  round  his  area  railings. 

Looking  down  on  the  upturned  faces  below 
him,  Mr.  Tapster  was  very  glad  that  a  stout 
pane  of  glass  stood  between  himself  and  the 
sinister-looking  men  and  women  who  seemed 
to  be  staring  up  at  him,  or  rather  at  his  win- 
dows, with  faces  full  of  cruel,  wolfish  curiosity. 

He  let  the  blind  fall  to  gently.  His  interest 
in  the  vulgar,  sordid  scene  had  suddenly  died 
down;  the  drama  was  now  over;  in  a  moment 
the  crowd  would  disperse,  the  human  vermin — 
but  Mr.  Tapster  would  never  have  used,  even 
to  himself,  so  coarse  an  expression — would  be 
on  their  way  back  to  their  burrows.  But  be- 
fore he  had  even  time  to  rearrange  the  curtains 
in  their  right  folds,  there  came  a  sudden,  loud, 
persistent  knocking  at  his  front  door. 

Mr.  Tapster  turned  sharply  round,  feeling 
justly  incensed.  Of  course  he  knew  what  it 
was, — some  good-for-nothing  urchin  finding  a 
vent  for  his  excited  feelings.  While  it  was 
quite  proper  that  the  police  should  have  hur- 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    313 

ried  on  with  their  still  burden  to  the  nearest 
hospital  or  workhouse  infirmary,  they  should 
have  left  at  least  one  constable  to  keep  order. 
His  parlourmaid,  who  was  never  in  any  hurry 
to  open  the  door — she  had  once  kept  him  wait- 
ing ten  minutes  when  he  had  forgotten  his 
latch-key — would  certainly  take  no  notice  of 
this  unseemly  noise,  but  he,  James  Tapster, 
would  himself  hurry  out  and  try  and  catch  the 
delinquent,  take  his  name  and  address,  and 
thoroughly  frighten  him. 

As  he  reached  the  door  of  the  dining-room 
Mr.  Tapster  heard  the  front  door  open — open, 
too,  and  this  was  certainly  very  surprising, 
from  the  outside!  In  the  hall  he  saw  that  it 
was  a  policeman — in  fact,  the  officer  on  point 
duty  close  by — who  had  opened  his  front  door, 
and  apparently  with  a  latch-key. 

In  the  moment  that  elapsed  before  the  con- 
stable spoke,  Mr.  Tapster's  mind  had  had  time 
to  formulate  a  new  theory.  How  strange  he 
had  never  heard  that  the  police  have  means  of 
access  to  every  house  on  their  beat !  The  fact 
surprised  but  did  not  alarm  him,  for  our  hero 
was  one  of  the  great  army  of  law-abiding  citi- 
zens in  whose  eyes  a  policeman  is  no  human  be- 
ing, subject  to  the  same  laws,  the  same  tempta- 
tions and  passions  which  afflict  ordinary  hu- 


314  STUDIES   IN  WIVES 

manity.  No,  no ;  in  Mr.  Tapster's  eyes  a  con- 
stable could  do  no  wrong,  although  he  might 
occasionally  stretch  a  point  to  oblige  such  a 
man  as  was  Mr.  Tapster  himself. 

But  what  was  the  constable  saying — speak- 
ing, as  constables  always  do  to  the  Mr.  Tap- 
sters of  this  world,  in  respectful  and  subdued 
tones? 

"  Can  I  just  come  in  and  speak  to  you,  sir? 
There's  been  a  sad  accident — your  lady  fallen 
in  the  water;  we  found  these  keys  in  her 
pocket,  and  then  someone  said  she  was  Mrs. 
Tapster," — and  the  policeman  held  out  the 
two  keys  which  had  played  a  not  unimportant 
part  in  Mr.  Tapster's  interview  with  Flossy. 

"  A  man  on  the  bridge  saw  her  go  in/'  went 
on  the  policeman,  "  so  she  wasn't  in  the  water 
long — something  like  a  quarter  of  an  hour — 
for  we  soon  found  her.  I  suppose  you  would 
like  her  taken  upstairs,  sir?  " 

"  No,  no,"  stammered  Mr.  Tapster,  "  not 
upstairs.  The  children  are  upstairs." 

Mr.  Tapster's  round,  prominent  eyes  were 
shadowed  with  a  great  horror  and  an  even 
greater  surprise.  He  stood  staring  at  the  man 
before  him,  his  hands  clasped  in  a  wholly  un- 
conscious gesture  of  supplication. 

The  constable  gradually  edged  himself  back- 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    815 

wards  into  the  dining-room.  Realising  that 
he  must  take  on  himself  the  onus  of  decision, 
he  gave  a  quiet  look  round. 

"  If  that's  the  case,"  he  said  firmly,  "  we 
had  better  bring  her  in  here.  That  sofa  that 
you  have  there,  sir,  will  do  nicely,  for  her  to  be 
laid  upon  while  they  try  to  bring  her  round. 
We've  got  a  doctor  already " 

Mr.  Tapster  bent  his  head ;  he  was  too  much 
bewildered  to  propose  any  other  plan;  and 
then  he  turned — turned  to  see  his  hall  invaded 
by  a  strange  and  sinister  quartette.  It  was 
composed  of  two  policemen  and  of  two  of 
those  loafers  of  whom  he  so  greatly  disap- 
proved; they  were  carrying  a  hurdle,  from 
which  Mr.  Tapster  quickly  averted  his 
eyes. 

But  though  he  was  able  to  shut  out  the  sight 
he  feared  to  see,  he  could  not  prevent  himself 
from  hearing  certain  sounds — those,  for  in- 
stance, made  by  the  two  loafers,  who  breathed 
with  ostentatious  difficulty  as  if  to  show  they 
were  unaccustomed  to  bearing  even  so  com- 
paratively light  a  burden  as  Flossy  drowned. 

There  came  a  sudden  short  whisper-filled 
delay;  the  doorway  of  the  dining-room  was 
found  to  be  too  narrow,  and  the  hurdle  was 
perforce  left  in  the  hall. 


316          STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

An  urgent  voice,  full  of  wholly  unconscious 
irony,  muttered  in  Mr.  Tapster's  ear:  "Of 
course  you  would  like  to  see  her,  sir,"  and  he 
felt  himself  being  propelled  forward.  Mak- 
ing an  effort  to  bear  himself  so  that  he  should 
not  feel  afterwards  ashamed  of  his  lack  of 
nerve,  he  forced  himself  to  stare  with  dread- 
filled  yet  fascinated  eyes  at  that  which  had  just 
been  laid  upon  the  leather  sofa. 

Flossy's  hat — the  shabby  hat  which  had 
shocked  Mr.  Tapster's  sense  of  what  was 
seemly — had  gone;  her  fair  hair  had  all  come 
down,  and  hung  in  pale,  gold  wisps  about  the 
face  already  fixed  in  the  soft  dignity  which 
seems  so  soon  to  drape  the  features  of  those 
who  die  by  drowning.  Her  widely-opened 
eyes  were  now  wholly  emptied  of  the  anguish 
with  which  they  had  gazed  on  Mr.  Tapster  in 
this  very  room  less  than  an  hour  ago.  Her 
mean  brown  serge  gown,  from  which  the  water 
was  still  dripping,  clung  closely  to  her  limbs, 
revealing  the  slender  body  which  had  four 
times  endured,  on  behalf  of  Mr.  Tapster,  the 
greatest  of  woman's  natural  ordeals.  But 
that  thought,  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say, 
did  not  come  to  add  an  extra  pang  to  those 
which  that  unfortunate  man  was  now  suffer- 
ing; for  Mr.  Tapster  naturally  thought  ma- 


DECREE  MADE  ABSOLUTE    317 

ternity  was  in  every  married  woman's  day's 
work — and  pleasure. 

It  might  have  been  a  moment,  for  all  that  he 
knew,  or  it  might  have  been  an  hour,  when  at 
last  something  came  to  relieve  the  unbearable 
tension  of  Mr.  Tapster's  feelings.  He  had 
been  standing  aside  helpless,  aware  of  and  yet 
not  watching  the  efforts  made  to  restore 
Flossy  to  consciousness. 

The  doctor  raised  himself  and  straightened 
his  cramped  shoulders  and  tired  arms.  With 
a  look  of  great  concern  on  his  face  he  ap- 
proached the  bereaved  husband. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  no  good,"  he  said;  "the 
shock  of  the  plunge  in  the  cold  water  probably 
killed  her.  She  was  evidently  in  poor  health, 
and — and  ill-nourished.  But,  of  course,  we 
shall  go  on  for  some  time  longer,  and " 

But  whatever  he  had  meant  to  say  re- 
mained unspoken,  for  a  telegraph  boy,  with  the 
impudence  natural  to  his  kind,  was  forcing  his 
way  into  and  through  the  crowded  room. 

"James  Tapster,  Esquire?"  he  cried  in  a 
high,  childish  treble. 

The  master  of  the  house  held  out  his  hand 
mechanically.  He  took  the  buff  envelope  and 
stared  down  at  it,  sufficiently  master  of  himself 


318          STUDIES  IN  WIVES 

to  perceive  that  some  fool  had  apparently 
imagined  Cumberland  Crescent  to  be  in  South 
London;  before  his  eyes  swam  the  line,  "De- 
layed in  transmission."  Then,  opening  the  en- 
velope, he  saw  the  message  for  which  he  had 
now  been  waiting  so  eagerly  for  some  days,  but 
it  was  with  indifference  that  he  read  the  words : 

er  The  Decree  has  been  made  Absolute." 


A    000110628     5 


